


DC2 Nightwing: The Great Unknown

by Dragonbat



Series: DC2 Nightwing [1]
Category: Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, implied dick/babs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-31
Updated: 2006-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonbat/pseuds/Dragonbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Nightwing Year 1.  After being fired by Batman, Nightwing heads to New York and helps form the Teen Titans. When he realizes that his emotional baggage is affecting his leadership, he strikes out solo to find himself and foil a terrorist plot while he's at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breaking Down

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted at DC2 as Nightwing 1–7. For more stories of the DC2, visit www.dc2universe.com. Disclaimer: All major characters owned by DC Comics and AOL Time Warner. I'm doing this out of love, not money.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Robin disobeys a direct order with the best of intentions. The fallout may be fatal!

_Suddenly you're in this fight alone_

_Steppin' out into the great unknown_

_And the night's the hardest time_

_When the doubts run through your mind_

_'Cause suddenly you find yourself alone_

_Desmund Child and Andreas Carlsson, "Suddenly"_

* * *

**Part 1: Breaking Down**

_We're all out of second chances_

_And all out of one more times_

_There's not a word we haven't said_

_Nothing we haven't tried_

_My bones are achin'_

_From the weight I'm holdin' now_

_I've took all that I'm taking_

_I'm breaking, breaking down_

_Hilary Lindsey, Troy Verges and Angelo "Three Mississippi"_

* * *

_Growing up around Bruce, sometimes I wonder how I stayed me. I was his counterbalance-light to his dark, mirth to his gloom. If he came down like a ton of bricks, I used that weight to launch me toward the stratosphere. We were a team, a partnership... yin and yang, Bruce called it. Those were great days. But then, I had to go and ruin it all. I had to grow up. I had to realize that Bruce wasn't perfect, after all. In fact, he wasn't even close to perfect. Problem was: he expected me to be..._

"You're not concentrating, Dick!" Bruce exclaimed sharply, as the projectile passed within a fingerbreadth of the teenager's left eye. "Stop daydreaming, and pay attention!"

"Lighten up, Bruce," the youth shot back, flipping neatly out of harm's way. "I got it cov-agh!" He gasped as a second missile clipped his upper arm. Concentration rattled, Dick tumbled from his perch, fifteen feet above where his mentor stood. He spun into a double somersault, to land solidly on the exercise mat below. He met Bruce's angry glower with one of his own.

"I told you," Bruce started to say.

Dick cut him off. "You upped the danger level on me!"

"Is that what you're going to do in the field? Start whining when your enemy pulls something unexpected?"

The young man bristled under his instructor's questions. "You really have to ask that? After six years of working together, you really-you're serious. Aren't you? You don't trust me to watch your back." He shook his head in disgust. "I don't believe this."

Bruce turned away. "If you're taking reckless chances with your own neck," he said hollowly, "how can I possibly expect you to look out for mine?"

That brought him up short. He drew a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. "Because," he grinned, "you always told me to put other people's safety ahead of my own, and," he continued seriously, "I do."

Bruce started to nod, and then stopped as he witnessed an unholy gleam of mirth spark in his partner's eyes.

"I just have to remember," he added, "that not everyone can move as quickly as I can. After all, when it's been statistically proven that the human body slows down... as it gets older-HEY!"

A heavy medicine ball sailed past his head, missing him by inches. Dick caught it in midair. "You trying to kill me?"

"Me?" Bruce asked innocently. "I thought for sure you'd be able to dodge anything these tired old arms could throw at you-" he ducked to avoid the flying capoeira kick, and seized hold of Dick's ankle as it passed harmlessly into the air where his head had been an instant earlier.

Dick angled his descent, hitting the mat hands-first, while simultaneously kicking Bruce in the throat with the side of his free foot. Bruce fell back, gasping, releasing him. An instant later, Dick hurled himself at his mentor, and the two fell grappling to the ground, amid jeers and laughter.

_At first, I think we both thought it was a phase of some kind, and things would go back to normal. I had no idea why we were arguing so much, lately. And why, as time went on, we stopped making up. It wasn't like either of us really apologized, before. We just each had this sixth sense about the other one, about when the storm had blown over. Then one of us would say something like…_

"So, what do you think, Bruce? Will the Knights make the playoffs this season?"

_And the other one might answer_

"Anything's possible."

_And then we'd head up to dinner or out on patrol, and things would just smooth themselves over. Except that, after awhile... they didn't._

"Your head wasn't in it, tonight. That could have been fatal."

Dick bristled. The words wouldn't have cut so deeply if there hadn't been an element of truth to them. "I," he started to apologize. Bruce cut him off.

"I don't know what's been getting into you lately, but-"

Right then and there, the younger man decided that he had had enough. "What's been getting into me," he repeated disbelievingly. "What's been getting... in... to me? World's greatest detective doesn't have a clue? He hasn't noticed that between 'work' and school, I have no time for anything else? He doesn't see that my grades are falling off because it's a little hard to study when he keeps piling on the extra training. Sure, at this point, I could probably teach the chemistry class better than the instructor, but-"

Bruce cut him off. "I had no idea that you were under that kind of pressure. Very well. Until the end of the school year, no more Robin."

Dick's jaw dropped. "What? I didn't mean-"

"Batgirl and I will handle the city. _You_ work on your grades. Take on some extra-curriculars, since they're clearly more important to you than-"

Dick was sputtering. "Don't twist everything I say, damn it!"

"You said that your academics were suffering due to your night-time activities, did you not? You implied that the pressure was impacting your performance in the field." Bruce's voice was as smooth and glacial as skating rink before a hockey game. "You've raised some valid concerns. It's your senior year. As of this moment, your schooling _is_ more important than any other pursuits. If you can't handle being Robin right now, then-"

"Bruce," Dick said desperately, "don't do this. Please!" He felt a firm but gentle hand squeeze his shoulder.

"Master Dick," a British voice said crisply behind him, "I fear I must support Master Bruce's decision on this score."

Dick spun in angry disbelief. "Et tu, Alfred?"

The older man's eyes twinkled. "Ah. I see you've not forgotten your Shakespeare. If you can retain such information until your final examinations, there will be no reason whatsoever as to why, come summertime, you would not be able to risk life and limb as you've been wont to do for nigh on six years."

Dick tried to maintain his anger, but after a moment his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine. Whatever," he said as he unfastened his utility belt, and pulled the red vest over his head. Grabbing a towel, he headed toward the cave's shower facilities, and then spun back. "But I'll be down here, working out, every day no matter what."

Alfred smiled. "I'd hardly expect less from one as disciplined as you've shown yourself to be in the past, Master Dick," he remarked.

Bruce turned his back, but not before Dick saw the slight nod and the glint of approval in his mentor's eyes.

_Would it have gone differently, had I held myself to that? I wonder._

* * *

Barbara looked up from the cave's computer. "Joker's down at the docks," she reported. "I might as well call it in."

Dick, balancing on the uneven parallel bars, glanced briefly in her direction. "May as well," he agreed. "It's not like he'd let either of us step in and _help_ or anything."

Barbara sighed. "I don't get it. We're backup, right?" She didn't wait for a reply. "So then why doesn't he _let_ us back him up at a time like this?" Her hand arced before her in a sweeping gesture. " _First,_ every street punk who wants to make a name for himself by taking down Batman seems to pick THIS week to do it, _then_ Joker breaks out... then Joker breaks a whole slew of crazies out of Arkham. And the worse things get-"

"The more he looks for excuses to keep us safe," Dick nodded. "That's Bruce. He couldn't protect _one_ family when he was a kid, so now he's going to make darned sure he doesn't lose us... even if it kills him."

Barbara shook her head. "That makes no sense."

"No?" Dick dismounted, somersaulting into a solid landing. "Okay, let's try this one then... I've been on reserve duty for the last few months. First night out, I get three different mooks taking potshots at me, _which_ I manage to dodge, thank-you very much. _One_ guy manages to graze my arm," he indicated the bandage taped about his left forearm, "and he decides I'm not up to snuff and tells me to lie low."

"He told me the same thing," Barbara pointed out, "And for a lot less. But if you could perform _that_ routine, even with that flesh wound, then..."

Dick grinned. "He'd just say that uneven parallel bars don't fight back when you jump all over them." He continued.

"You've been training for two years, and really only going out in costume for... what? A year, now? Year-and-a-half?" He shook his head. "We go out doing what we do and mean guys with guns are part and parcel of the territory. Bruce doesn't think we've got what it takes to bring Joker down, and the only way to prove that we do, is to actually bring him down. And right now, Bruce doesn't want to give us that chance. I know. It stinks." He grinned. "But, hey. _You_ knew what Bruce was like when you signed on. I had to learn it gradually."

Barbara laughed despite herself. "Better hit the showers, Boy Wonder. Unless," she added, wrinkling her nose, "that's a new weapon you're testing out."

"You wound me," Dick pantomimed being stabbed to the heart.

" _You_ wound my olfactory system. Phew!"

"Okay, okay," Dick said laughing. "I'll go get cleaned up. Just for you, though. Wish you'd do the same for me," he added wistfully.

Barbara sighed. "By the time we're old enough for the age gap not to matter, we'll both be with other people."

"Keep saying it, Babs. Maybe one day, one of us will be convinced."

When Dick exited the showers, Barbara was nowhere to be found. Had she gotten bored and gone home? _No_. Her blue convertible was still parked where she had left it... but her bat-cycle was _not_. _She wouldn't have..._ The thought froze in his mind as he noticed that her costume was missing from its locker.

 _Oh... crud. She's supposed to be the one who holds **me** back_ , he thought in disbelief. Then he considered. The shootings, the rioting, Batman's current level of fatigue… All of that combined just might have been enough for his teammate to decide to shoulder some of Bruce's current workload, whether he wanted her to or not. But… _Batgirl's never faced Joker before_ …

Dick Grayson pondered the situation for about five minutes before settling on a course of action.

* * *

His comlink sounded twenty minutes later. "Where do you think you're going?"

At times like this, honesty wasn't necessarily the _best_ policy, but it was still the lesser of two evils.

"The docks," he replied tersely. "Crays picked up a potential trouble spot."

"Negative. Return to cave, immediately. I'll handle it."

Another pair of ears might have missed the weariness in the older crime fighter's tone. Batman had trained him too well.

"Belay that, Batman. I'll be at the location in twelve minutes. You're farther away."

"That's irrelevant. The situation is too volatile. You're not equipped to handle it on your own."

Robin drew in his breath, about to protest, and then stopped as his mentor continued.

"Wait for me in the alleyway behind the Giella Shipping Company. We'll go in together."

That was about as close as Bruce was ever likely to get to admitting that he was in over his head, Dick realized. "Understood. Robin out."

"Di-Robin?"

"Still here."

"I didn't tell you everything."

 _What, no... Really?_ He bit back the sarcastic rejoinder. "Oh?"

Batman rattled off his next words staccato-fast, as though saying them that swiftly would somehow minimize his concern. "Joker wants to use the two of you to get to me. Do not give him that opportunity. Tell Batgirl to stay with you and out of sight until I get there."

Robin swallowed.

"About Batgirl," he ventured...

* * *

_What was taking Batman so long?_ Robin wondered as he crouched in the shadows behind the warehouse that Bruce had specified. He toggled the heads-up display, and the hour and minute obediently flashed before his mask lenses. He had been waiting less than twenty minutes, but it felt like hours.

It was too quiet. His ears took in and summarily dismissed the myriad sounds of the docks by night: the water lapping gently against the dock pilings and rocky bank of the Gotham River, the occasional scuffle of work boots on cobbled stone as their owner hurried to or from some point or other. _The ones to look out for are the ones that are trying to move quietly, he reminded himself. Those are the people who have something to hide._ The wind shifted, bringing with it the rancid odor of fish left out too long in the late-spring humidity, and Robin nearly retched as his stomach battled to keep its contents within. He almost missed hearing the moan, so low it was scarcely more than a sigh, as it escaped from one of the windows of the adjacent warehouse. For a moment, he was sure that it was the wind again, but he realized that the sound was coming from the wrong direction.

He hesitated. Batman had ordered him to stay put. _But Batman didn't know about this, he thought. The suit carries a responsibility. When I put it on, I have an obligation to help those who need it._ He froze. _But, Batman gave me the suit. I have a duty to follow his orders._ Robin frowned. I also have a duty to evaluate each situation and react accordingly. _He's got a partner, not a puppet. I can't just let someone die because he ordered me to stay put_.

Robin hesitated. If he could hear what was going on inside the warehouse, there was every possibility that those inside would also hear him, should he try to signal Batman. From his utility belt, he extracted a narrow stylus and quickly rubbed the tip against the rough brick wall closest to him. To the naked eye, the surface of the wall looked the same. But, once Batman switched to full-spectrum lenses-as he would, if he did not see Robin waiting for him at the designated meeting point-the message that Dick had just scrawled for him in ultra-violet ink would be clearly discernable.

His mind made up, Dick fired off a grappling hook, which caught the edge of the roof of a nearby storage facility. As quietly as he could, he made his way to the top, and leaped lightly from building to building until he stood atop the warehouse from which he had heard the moan. He lowered himself cautiously to the window and looked inside.

Batgirl stood in the centre of the room, her hands bound above her and secured to a large hook suspended from the ceiling. Her costume was torn in several places and the exposed flesh was bruised, as though someone had attacked her with a blunt instrument. From his vantage point, Robin could see a half dozen men in the room with her. At least two of them were holding baseball bats, which certainly looked capable of inflicting that sort of damage. As he watched, one of them approached the captive vigilante with a leer.

"Peters," a voice called. "Don't hurt the bait."

Peters took Batgirl's chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't worry, Hanrahan," he grinned. "Ain't gonna do nothing permanent." As he spoke, his other hand attached itself to the young woman's shoulder, and slowly began to roam further downward.

Batgirl struggled faintly. Robin could see that her ankles were tied together and fastened to an eye-ring bolted to the floor. That explained why she hadn't already leveled a kick at the man. The youth seethed, as Peters continued to speak softly.

"Now, Sweetheart, you heard the man. I don't want to hurt you, none. You be nice to me and I'll make this go easy for you. Whaddaya say?" He pulled her face closer to his as he leaned in to kiss her.

Batgirl suddenly jerked her head back and out of his surprised grip. Before he could recover, she spat full in his face. Peters colored as his cohorts bellowed with laughter.

"That's showing him, Girlie!" One guffawed.

Peters backhanded her across the face. She swallowed a cry, and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. He pulled back to hit her again when one of the others frowned.

"Hold it!" The new man shouted. "There's someone at the window."

Robin froze. _How... His shadow...on the floor. Of all the **stupid...** careless..._ He tried to duck out of sight, but the damage was done.

The second man pulled out a pistol and held it to Batgirl's head. "You may as well come in," he called. "Unless you want me to hit the girl with something a little more serious than a Louisville Slugger."

He only hesitated a moment before pushing the window the rest of the way open and dropping lightly to the floor. Immediately, two burly men rushed forward. Each gripped one of his arms with both hands, while a third relieved him of his utility belt.

"Fine," Robin said irritably. "You got me. I surrender. Now let her go." He didn't seriously expect them to obey, but he had to make the offer.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, from an adjacent room that Robin had not seen earlier, came a sound that made the Boy Wonder's blood run cold.

"HAHAHAHahahahaha!" _No. Not him…_ The Joker pushed the door open wider and strode fully into view.

* * *

Robin stood with his back against an upright unsanded support beam. Behind him, a rough cord was tied securely around one wrist, threaded through an iron ring bolted to the back of the stanchion, and tied around his other wrist. He forced himself to remain silent as Joker handed out automatic weapons and ammunition to twenty men and women in clown-attire, sporting chalk-white makeup, and blood-red malicious grins. "Right," he chortled gleefully. "Auguste, Columbine, Harlequin, Pierrot, Bello, and Hobo take the downtown core. Just ride around and fire at will! And I don't mean Weary Willie, here!" He added, draping a friendly arm around another of his henchmen. "Unless of course, he gets in your way…" The others laughed dutifully as 'Willie' flinched.

Joker directed several others to points west, north, and south of the docks. They filed out, all but four of them. Then the white-faced man turned to his captives. "So…" he began, spreading his hands expansively, "…where's Batman?"

"Put it this way, Joker," Robin snarled. "If you start running now, you _might_ get away before he turns up." He slid the cord back and forth through the metal ring in a sawing motion. He thought he could feel it beginning to fray.

The green-haired Arkham escapee sauntered up to him and, without warning, delivered a heavy blow to the young vigilante's jaw. Robin's head snapped up and back, banging against the support beam.

"Comedy's a lot harder than that, boyo," he said lightly. "Dying on the other hand," he paused, voice trailing off as he gazed intently around the room. Something in the other office caught his eye, and he darted off, to return a moment later with a large crowbar. "Dying," he continued, "can be relatively easy."

* * *

Where was Robin? The Caped Crusader took stock of the alleyway angrily. He had _told_ the boy to wait for him. With the carnage raging in the city, it had taken nearly forty-five minutes for him to traverse the four miles that had separated him from the rendezvous point. Along the way, he had encountered the scions of Gotham's most infamous organized crime families, street punks, junkies, riffraff, and somewhat worryingly, normally law-abiding citizens who were taking advantage of the prevailing air of lawlessness and vandalizing and looting at will.

Batman hadn't slept in over fifty hours. He had been relying mostly on bottled water and trail mix for sustenance. He'd told himself that it was all worthwhile so long as his partners were safely out of harm's way. Instead, their actions had landed them directly in the thick of things.

He glanced about him and spotted ghostly writing glowing on a nearby wall. He read it and was unable to suppress an oath. _Joker…_

* * *

"Leave her alone!" Robin shouted as Joker advanced on Batgirl, crowbar in hand. He forced himself to keep sawing the rope inconspicuously. If he worked any faster, his movements would betray him. The rope had nearly parted, now.

"You'll get your turn, Boy _blunder_ ," Joker chuckled. "I just want to play with a different bird, first." His grin grew wider. "I really didn't want to start the party before Tall, Grim and Boring got here, but two bats in the hand are worth one in the bush. And speaking of bats…"

Joker swung the crowbar in a wide arc, smashing it into Batgirl's side. Ribs cracked as the young woman cried out.

"Lovely!" The madman exclaimed, tucking the weapon under one arm so that he could heartily applaud. "I didn't realize you could reach that note. Can you go any higher?" He asked conversationally. He swung the bar again, this time catching her below the armpit on her other side. "I can…"

The last fibers of the rope parted and Robin launched himself at the laughing maniac. His momentum carried him forward, and Joker fell to the ground in a flying tackle. He kept his hold on the crowbar, however. As Robin's fists pounded rhythmically against chalk-white flesh, Joker raised the metal rod and thrust it against the boy's throat.

At that angle, the bar could do little physical damage, but it did leave the youth gasping for air. Two pairs of hammy hands hauled him roughly off the fallen lunatic.

Joker rose smilingly, albeit shakily to his feet. He handed the crowbar to another of his henchmen. Then, still smiling, he delivered a powerful kick to Robin's midsection. The boy doubled over, gasping, and would have fallen, were it not for the two men restraining him. Joker beckoned to the hireling now holding the length of metal.

"If the little bird wants to play so badly," he shrugged, "you may as well share that toy with him. And, Krusty," he added, "be generous, won't you. If you spare the rod, you'll only spoil the child." He gave Robin a mock-appraising look. "Then again, it might already be too late… still…" He straightened. "No! By gum and by golly, no! There's always hope, isn't there?" He clasped his hands together, and struck a parody of a melodramatic pose. "We must do everything we can, even if it's still not enough, we still have to try, right? Right?"

The mook nodded, eyes gleaming. "Right, boss. Everything we can."

Joker placed a fatherly hand on his henchman's shoulder. "Good man, Krusty. I'll leave you to him then. As for me, there's music to play, places to go, people to see…"

He picked up a machine gun and stepped into a waiting freight elevator car. Before the gate closed behind him, he added:

"…And kill."

* * *

Robin was going to die. He knew it. He was trying to roll with the punches, doing his best to dodge repeated blows from 'Krusty-with-the-crowbar', but his injuries were beginning to tell on him. Even if he somehow managed to escape, they were only going to start in on Batgirl again. He had to stall as long as he could, stay alive, give his audience a good show and hope Batman turned up soon. _And what if, when he does, he's in worse shape than you are? You know how hard he's been working lately._ That was a moot point, right now. The only thing that mattered was staying alive-and keeping Batgirl alive-as long as he could. Which, judging by the blows now raining down faster and harder than before, wasn't going to be very much longer at all.

And then, Batman was there. Robin sensed, rather than saw or heard him. He was barely conscious, but he could hear the screams and the whimpers, and they weren't flying from his lips anymore. Batman was there. That was his last coherent thought, before his world went dark.

* * *

He awoke in the cave.

"Relax, Master Dick. This shall sting briefly." His wounds suddenly felt like they were on fire. It was almost worse than the original beating had been.

"A-Alfred?"

"Rest easy, Sir. You've been through quite an ordeal. But, you should be up and about in no time."

Dick opened his eyes and looked around. He was alone in the cave with Alfred, and there was no sign that anyone else had been down here recently. "Babs?" He whispered.

Alfred shook his head disapprovingly. "Batman returned Miss Barbara to her father's house three nights ago. Apparently, she was brutally attacked by a number of ruffians as she made her way to the library parking lot. She was seriously injured, but the doctors do expect her to make a full recovery."

Dick nodded wearily. Batman must have brought her home as soon as he and Alfred had come up with a plausible explanation for those bruises. He tried to sit up but sank back exhausted. "How long have I been here?"

"The better part of three days, Sir."

"Bruce?"

The butler's expression was somber. "Physically, his injuries required far less treatment than yours."

Dick nodded, relieved. Then his heart began to pound. That should have been good news. But from the way Alfred was acting… "Alfred? What else?"

"I… Master Dick, I'm not entirely certain that it's my place to tell you."

"Will Bruce?"

"Tell him." Dick started involuntarily. How long had Bruce been in the cave, listening? "He may as well hear it," Bruce continued. Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he stalked out of the sickbay area. In the stillness, Dick heard leather soles stamping on cold stone as Bruce made his way upstairs to the manor.

When the hidden door behind the grandfather clock swung shut, the older man drew a deep breath. "Very well, then, Sir. It would appear, from what Master Bruce has pieced together from police and media sources, as well as from Miss Barbara's account, that after leaving the two of you to the tender mercies of his associates, the Joker made his way downtown to the Chateau Desris," Alfred named a five-star hotel in the Theatre District. "A political fundraiser was taking place, and Miss Julie was in attendance."

"Julie Madison?" Dick repeated. Bruce's fiancée. Dick liked her, although he was still trying to get used to the idea that a woman only a few years Barbara's senior was about to become his de facto stepmother. Still, that notion was easier for him to accept than what Bruce had told him less than six weeks ago:

" _If Julie and I are going to have a real chance at making things work… I can't keep things from her. And I can't run the risk of someone finding out my secret and using her to get to me, either. So, sometime soon… I'm going to tell her about Batman. And I'm also going to tell her that… that it's part of the past. She and I have a future together… and the costume can't jeopardize it." His eyes turned pleading. "Do you understand, Dick?"_

 _He did. He'd just never thought he'd actually hear Bruce say it. But he'd seen how…_ relaxed _Bruce had been lately, since he'd finally admitted to himself that Julie wasn't another one of his fly-by-night conquests to be photographed in the tabloids and forgotten as soon as the next story made the headlines. Julie was good for Bruce. How could Dick fail to see that? And seeing it, how could he begrudge Bruce such happiness?_

Alfred had just mentioned the Joker. "What about Julie?" He asked apprehensively.

"According to eyewitnesses, Joker entered the hotel via the main lobby doors. He seized a rumaki from a server's tray and pronounced it rancid. Whereupon, he removed the safety from his machine gun and opened fire on the attendees."

 _Oh… no…_ "J-Julie?" Dick asked, dreading the answer.

The butler lowered his eyes. "She sustained several bullet wounds. Despite the doctors' best efforts, she… to our sorrow, they were unable to save her life."

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. _Bruce. Oh, G-d… what is he going through?_

Alfred watched him, concerned. "Perhaps, I should have waited until you were stronger. Rest, now, Master Dick. Rest…"

And, thanks in no small part, to the painkillers that Alfred urged him to swallow, he did.

* * *

Two days later, Dick ventured into Bruce's study. The shades were drawn, the lights dimmed. Bruce sat at his writing desk, elbows on the blotter, hands steepled beneath his chin. "I'm sorry," he ventured.

Bruce shook his head. "You can't blame yourself. Thanks to Joker, over a hundred people died that night. Julie happened to be one of them. I suppose," he said tonelessly. "I needed to be reminded of the oath that I took that night, to make Gotham a place where people could walk its streets in perfect safety again. I was prepared to betray that purpose for… purely selfish reasons."

Dick frowned. "Hold on, Bruce. I know you're hurting right now, but you can't just-"

"Joker brutalized you and Batgirl in order to get to me. He shot scores of people for the same reason. And had he known that one of his victims was someone important to me… Dick, I don't want to think what he might have done. I can't…" He broke off, and then steadied his voice.

"If there's one thing that's been made very clear to me, it's that anybody connected with me is a potential target. I can't protect the city knowing that I'm endangering those closest to me. I can't afford any… new attachments. As to those that already exist, I've already told this to Barbara. Now I'm telling you. Effective immediately, Robin and Batgirl have flown their last. My decision is final."

Dick stared at his mentor in angry disbelief. "You can't do that. You haven't the right…"

"I have the responsibility. And I'm taking it. As of this moment, there is no more Robin."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes on the DC2**
> 
> The DC2 is a site dedicated to chronicling the adventures of the greater- and lesser-know heroes of the DCU in serial format. From 2006 to 2007, I was privileged to be writing their monthly _Nightwing_ title. While borrowing heavily from DCU canon, the site has its own canon and continuity. Some points of divergence particularly relevant to the Bat-clan in general and NW in particular:
> 
> Dick was about 12 when Bruce took him in.
> 
> The Teen Titans did not form until Dick, Roy, and Wally started university. Although the 3 had worked together in the past, they did not officially form a team until that point. Donna has only recently left Themiscyra and is also attending Hudson. (Kory and Raven appear by the end of TT #2). This means that Dick hasn't done any solo missions and has very little experience working with anyone other than Batman at this point.
> 
> In this 'verse, Barbara was never crippled by Joker. As Batgirl, she, Dinah, Ollie, Zatanna, Helena, and Adrian Chase make up the New Outsiders, based out of Las Vegas.
> 
> I think that covers the basics. Please ask if I left out anything major.
> 
> To be continued!


	2. More To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick's self-doubts are affecting his leadership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Special thanks to Char, Debbie, and Kalin, my wonderful beta readers!
> 
> A/N: If it seems like you missed a chapter, you're not completely wrong. Here's one of the minor snags with working in a shared fanfic 'verse. While I was writing the first installment, Dick Grayson made the switch from Robin to Nightwing in the pages of Teen Titans! So this part takes place some weeks later, at the start of the winter term at Hudson University. Again, to read other tales of the DC2, please check out DC2universe.com.

_I'm shifting my life into drive_

_I'm getting out kicking the past goodbye_

_Like Toby said "How do you like me now?"_

_This conversation has run dry_

_And I keep telling myself_

_Oooh, Oooh, Oooh_

_There's more to me than you_

_Oooh, Oooh, Don't underestimate what I can do…_

_Jessica Andrews, Marcel Chagnon, James T. Slater, "There's More to Me Than You"_

* * *

**More To Me**

  
_Once upon a time, there was a little boy who could fly. Well, not really. He just made it look that way. Swinging on the trapeze, somersaulting so smoothly it probably looked like he was floating to the sawdust below…_

… _I know that's what it felt like anyway. I used to be that boy._

_For me, when I'd let go of the bar and go into my quad, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Dad used to tell me to block everything out but the routine, but I wanted to take it all in. I guess he was afraid that the sounds and smells would distract me, but instead they spurred me on. So I never really paid attention when Dad would tell me to forget the crowds, forget the calliope music and the drum rolls, the way the aroma of hot buttered popcorn rose up to meet me, and how it mingled with the odor of cigarette smoke. Smoking inside the tents wasn't allowed, but between the acts people would run outside for a tobacco fix. Over the years, the wind ground that smell into the canvas so tightly there was no way to wash it out. And, circus tents being rolled like they are when the show moves on, the stench permeated the fabric from top to bottom. Dad hated it. He was always after Pop Haley to get new tents, but the circus was barely breaking even, and the budget wasn't there._

_Me? It was familiar, even homey. I guess I accepted tobacco-infused big tops the same way I accepted that the chore rotation schedule would sometimes stick me walking-and cleaning up after-Madame Pierrette's Performing Poodle act. Some parts of life just weren't as much fun as others._

_Now 'fun', was when it was my turn to scrub down Elinore the elephant. Fun was riding on her back in the howdah when the circus passed through the small towns. Fun was watching Mom and Dad go through their act on the trapeze. Rehearsal or performance, it never made a difference. Sure, when it was my turn, I did a lot of the same stunts, but I didn't know what I looked like up there. I knew what they looked like, though. Air-dancers. High-flyers. Gravity had no hold on them._

_Dad always insisted I perform with a safety net. I was better than good, but I was still a child. And, in Dad's opinion, no matter how spectacular I was, I needed that extra protection. But the audience wanted to see 'death-defying' stunts. So, once my part of the act was finished, the roustabouts would take away the net, and the crowds would start cheering so loud I think the echoes carried as far south as Mexico City-when we were in Bridgeport, Connecticut._

_Pop Haley used to beg my father to keep the net up, but Dad would always point out that the Flying Graysons were one of the main attractions, and part of what made them so attractive was the absence of the net for the second half of the act. And Pop would shake his head, but he always gave in. Each night, they took away the net, and I'd stand at the edge of the ring and watch my parents soar. And I'd dream of the night when I'd get to fly without a net, too._

… _Until that night when a hoodlum named Zucco poured acid on the swing ropes. Not a lot, mind you. Just enough to eat part of the way through the cords. Just enough so that the ropes would break if forced to carry the weight of two adults. Just enough._

_That was the night that I learned why safety nets were important. It didn't matter whether you literally meant a woven nylon mesh, or whether you were referring to the constant drilling and review of technique that Bruce enforced. Nets were there to save you, not trap you. They provided a buffer, a breathing space. And refusing to make use of them could kill you._

_Maybe flying with a net wasn't fun or spectacular. And maybe it cramped your style. But it was important. It kept you alive._

_That was probably why, when I was a kid, it never bothered me when Bruce put me through the same drills and katas over and over again, or why he'd make me perform an exercise so many times I felt I could do it in my sleep. Actually, I remember this one time I bought some over-the-counter cold medicine and didn't check if it was a non-drowsy formula. And when Bruce woke me up at five-thirty as usual and we went down for our morning workout, I still managed to get all the moves right, groggy though I was._

_But, after awhile, I got cocky. I felt like I knew it all already. My body could go through the motions automatically. Forget 'second nature'. With the amount of coaching I went through, let's just say it was also natures three through seven. So I started working on newer, more sensational techniques and gave short shrift to the drills. Bruce kept reminding me I wasn't performing for the crowds now, and that I shouldn't be grandstanding. I let it go in one ear and out the other._

_And then, early last summer, I faced down some mook who grazed me with a 9-milimetre. A few weeks later, it was the Joker. And both times, my mind knew what to do, but my reflexes weren't sure. The purpose of the drills was supposed to be to let my body react before my conscious mind could assess the situation. I lost that and it cost me. It cost me a bunch of bruises and a few broken bones. It cost me the woman I loved. It cost me a job I'd held since I was twelve years old._

_It cost my surrogate father the woman **he** loved. And in many ways, it cost me Bruce, too. After I left for college, he didn't call me, and didn't return my calls for months. Finally, right before Christmas, he invited me home for a visit. I went… but it was strained. I know he's still hurting, but I don't know what to do to make things right, or if I even can. We never really talked things out-that's the problem. Now, I don't think either of us knows exactly how to start. And neither of us has the guts to try winging it. _

_I have to face facts. I messed up because I wasn't prepared. And the price I had to pay was higher than I'd bargained for. What really worries me though? Not too long ago, my friends and I went up against a threat that we weren't ready for_ _-and we almost lost. At least we learned one thing: brains, agility, weaponry, meta talents-it doesn't make any difference. Without the proper training, the next time we go up against something unexpected, if the Cult of Blood was any indicator, we're liable to get our backsides handed to us. Unless we drill, unless we practice, unless we're standing ready to catch each other when one of us is about to fall, unless we give ourselves that safety net, this team is doomed from the start._

* * *

"Speedy!" Nightwing snapped as Donna swerved at the last second to avoid colliding with the young archer. "Your timing's off. You have to get out of Wonder Girl's way the instant after you take that shot." He turned to Donna. "And you've got to be more on the ball, too. You should have anticipated the possibility that he wouldn't move fast enough and compensated sooner."

Roy Harper's fists clenched at his sides. "You saying you build your strategy around _expecting_ me to mess up, Wing?"

"I have to," Dick said. "It's called trying to prepare for all likely outcomes."

The room suddenly grew very still as Dick realized how that last bit had sounded. "Roy," he began, "I-I didn't mean…"

The other youth shook his head as he tried to mask the deep hurt in his eyes. "So that's the way it is," he said bitterly. "Good to know." His shoulders slumped as he made his way toward the door to the shower facilities of the Themiscyran consulate, where the Titans were holding their daily practice session. As he passed Nightwing, he plowed his elbow into his teammate's abdomen. Caught totally off guard, Dick doubled over. Roy followed with a fist to the chin, which snapped the other teen's head back. Dick fell heavily to the floor.

"Did you plan on that one, Victorio?" He asked. Without waiting for an answer, he walked on. "Jerk," he muttered as he left the gym.

"You okay, Dick?" Wally asked as he extended a hand to his fallen friend. Donna took hold of his other arm to help him to his feet.

Dick winced. "Fine. I mean 'fine', aside from this shoe-leather taste in my mouth," he added ruefully.

Wally grinned. "Well you _were_ a bit harsh," he said. Dick didn't miss the serious undercurrent to Kid Flash's bantering tone.

He sighed. "Right. I learned my diplomacy from Batman, remember?" He drew a deep breath, then gasped and put a hand to his stomach.

Donna's grip on his arm tightened. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Don't mother-hen me, Donna. I'm fine."

"But, Dick," Wally said, concern making him forget to speak slowly, "whatifitsyourappendixyouknowthat's…"

"Wally," Dick started.

Kid Flash continued, oblivious. "…HowHoudinidiedsomeonepunchedhiminthestomachwhen… "

"Wally."

"…Hewasntreadyandhisappendixrupt..."

"Wally!"

The red-haired youth stopped in mid-word.

Dick held his palms parallel to his chest, facing outward, and then lowered them quickly. "I had my appendix out when I was seven. Roy didn't really hit me that hard. I'm okay. Honest."

"How dared he?" An indignant voice spoke for the first time. "Challenging a leader in battle can cost lives. Even in combat rehearsal one does not tolerate such behaviour." Princess Koriand'r, late of the warrior society of Tamaran appeared ready to charge after Roy and…

Dick's lips twitched at the mental image of Kory hauling Roy out of the shower and…and giving him a dressing down while he was in a state of undress. He shook his head. Roy would never forgive him if he let that happen.

"Leave Speedy to me, Starfire," he said quickly. "I owe him that much, at least."

The alien girl's green eyes widened. "Explain," she demanded.

He sighed. "Roy and I go back a few years. I shouldn't have said what I said, in the first place. But since I did, he proved one point loud and clear. I should have planned for him to react the way he did." He closed his eyes. "Ever since we fought the Cult of Blood, we've been off our form. Like they rattled us and we're worried the same thing might happen again." He opened his eyes again and gazed intently into the eyes of each of his teammates in turn.

"That's why," he continued, "I'm pushing us all so hard. We have to function smoothly as a team. And we have to practice our maneuvers until they become reflex. We won't always get the luxury of thinking up our attacks as we go along, so we've got to keep drilling until our bodies react before our conscious minds finish assessing the situation. That goes for all of us, me included. So." He glanced around. "Let's try a sparring session. Kory and I take on Wally and Donna… hey, where's Raven?"

Donna put a hand on his shoulder. "She ran off when Roy hit you. I think the feelings in the room might have been a little intense for her."

"Great," Dick replied. "Alright. The teams are balanced this way. Leave it for now." As he sank into a fighting crouch, he wondered how he was going to clear the air with Roy. He couldn't quite believe he'd said those words in the first place.

_They sounded like something that_ Bruce _would have said…_

* * *

_Days later_

"We're outnumbered ten to one!" Speedy gasped. Starfire hovered above him, eyeing the armed men in ski masks, black turtlenecks and jackets, camouflage pants, and combat boots. Each jacket had two epaulets, to which were attached two blood-red oval stones about an inch in diameter. At the sight of the two Titans, the soldiers of the Carnelian Order raised their firearms menacingly. The Titans didn't know much about the organization. As rumor had it, the C.O. was a homegrown terrorist network dedicated to turning the United States into a military dictatorship—even if it had to force one to arise in response to its own activities.

The Tamaranian took the scene in at a glance. "Very well," she replied. "You take two. I'll deal with the other eighteen."

Speedy did a double take. Starfire smiled. "The others are moments behind us. We only need to hold them."

The young archer snickered. "I'll do better than that, Goldie," he replied, nocking a trick arrow to his bow. It sailed unerringly into the wall behind five of the terrorists.

"You missed," one started to jeer. He finished by hacking as a dense cloud of yellow-green vapor radiated forth from the arrow.

"Oh no, I didn't," Speedy rejoined. Four more members of the Order began to wheeze, as they tried to escape the knockout gas. He looked at his teammate. Starfire was busily blasting her energy bolts to neutralize the soldiers' weaponry. Her aim and accuracy were almost on a par with his, he noted admiringly, as he realized that she was channeling her blasts to melt the guns, but regulating the size and intensity of the bolts so that they _only_ impacted the guns. It wasn't fair, he mused. How could one girl command that much power and look so… incredibly hot, while doing so?

All at once, his chest constricted. His lungs fought for air, but suddenly there was none available. For a moment he thought that the gas cloud had somehow drifted over to him, but that would have made him nauseous. _This_ was like trying to breathe in a vacuum. But how…?

"The name's 'Breathtaker', a young girl's voice informed him with savage glee. Before him, Speedy saw a slight figure barely five-foot-two, clad in the same paramilitary gear as the others. The skin that showed through the eye holes of her ski mask was blue. From her build, and from the timbre of her voice, Speedy didn't think she was older than fourteen.

_Meta_ , he realized, trying to slide away. Whatever she was doing to him, maybe it was only effective short-range. He staggered, and fell heavily to the floor. His head was pounding, as though someone had clamped a vise around it. He couldn't feel his fingers. Breathtaker's laugh tinkled nastily. "I'm only giving you a dose of your own medicine, Rock," she explained. "I control the air. And I just pulled it all away from you… including what you had in your lungs!"

It was true, Roy realized. He was starving for oxygen, he was gasping for it desperately, but there was none to be had. His vision was growing dark…

"X'hal! No!" Starfire, suddenly aware of her teammate's plight, stopped her attack. Flying to Speedy's side, she scooped him up all-but-oblivious to the young girl gloating over him, and flew out the door by which they had entered.

Several turns down the maze-like corridors, she nearly collided with the rest of the team. "They're behind us, and Speedy's hurt!" She declared, her warrior's upbringing leading her to announce the important facts as quickly and succinctly as possible. They could hear shouts coming from behind her.

"Lay him down, Starfire," Nightwing ordered. "What happened?"

Kory relayed what she had overheard. "I can survive in space without oxygen for short periods of time. That protects me somewhat."

Nightwing looked down at his teammate with concern. He wasn't breathing. "Raven," he ordered, "give me your cloak. We've got to elevate his torso." The newest Titan complied instantly. Nightwing nodded approval as she quickly folded the garment into a neat oblong. "Who here knows emergency first aid?" He demanded, lifting Speedy halfway into a sitting position.

"For a Tamaranian, yes," Starfire replied, "but human physiology is alien to me."

Raven slid the cloak beneath her fallen teammate. "I am sorry, Nightwing. My healing talent works well on injured bones and tissues, but restoring his breathing is beyond me."

"Themiscyrans are immortal," Wonder Girl explained. "It's not something I've been taught."

Kid Flash shook his head.

Nightwing barely listened as he tilted Speedy's chin up. "Go back," he directed. "Starfire and Kid Flash first, Raven and Wonder Girl follow. Take 'em down fast and hard. I'll see to Roy. Be careful."

This was all his fault, he realized as he blew two long slow breaths into his teammate's mouth. Dick never should have listened to him when he'd volunteered to go first. Speedy couldn't fly, wasn't invulnerable, wasn't meta… _whoa, careful there, Dick. He's not the only one fitting that description._ But, that was all the more reason not to go charging in without assessing the situation first. He'd only agreed to send Speedy in the first place because of his superior stealth and tracking skills. While Starfire couldn't help but attract attention, Roy needed backup, and Dick had assumed that, coming from a military culture, the Tamaranian would have some knowledge of covert operations. He'd miscalculated, he realized. Kory knew about facing an enemy head-on. Stealth and espionage, he realized, were often deemed dishonorable traits in warrior society. Had he ever bothered to find out Starfire's views on the matter? _What kind of leader am I_? He wondered miserably. _If Batman were here, he'd have things under control by now._ He blew another time into Roy's mouth and was rewarded almost immediately when his companion drew breath on his own.

His relief was quickly replaced by anger. How could Roy have been so reckless? Even had the metahuman not been there, what in the world made him think that he could take on a room full of hostiles with a bow and arrow? He'd almost gotten killed for his pains.

_He almost got killed after you green-lighted his plan._

A blur seemed to glide toward them, slowing as it approached until its features solidified into the familiar form of Kid Flash. "HowIsHe?" Wally asked, nervousness warring with the effort to make himself understood.

"Breathing," Dick returned shortly. "You took care of them?"

Wally nodded. "A lot of them. Some got away… they had a trap door leading into the subway tunnels. Roy's the only one who might've been able to track them…"

"Only he couldn't," Dick countered. _Terrific._ "The one who did this to him?"

Wally shook his head. "She was one of the first ones who bolted. I was busy with the others. In the confusion…"

Dick frowned.

"I-I'm sorry. I should have been faster," Wally said.

Dick sighed. "Even if we had caught her, I don't know how we would have kept her from pulling that stunt on the rest of us." _But he should have had a plan for it. He was the leader. It was his job to prepare for all likely outcomes, wasn't it?_ "Has anybody notified the authorities?"

"Wonder Girl."

That was something gone right, at least. He looked down at Speedy. "Can you stand?" He asked.

Roy nodded and rose to his feet.

"Kid Flash, go back and get the others. We're leaving."

* * *

It was a subdued group of teenagers who sat around the dining room table in Roy's penthouse amid snacks and soft drinks the following afternoon. Roy said the words on everyone's minds. "We got our butts handed to us, yesterday."

Wally forced himself to smile. "Hey. We got about twenty-five of them off the streets and Kory got most of their firepower. We didn't do _all_ bad."

Donna smiled back approvingly. "Exactly, Wally. And next time we'll do better."

Dick looked up. "Darn straight we will," he agreed, feeling a surge of relief that the team seemed to be coping with their performance better than he'd anticipated. "Because now that we know what we're facing, we're going to modify our training accordingly. And we're going to drill until we could hold these guys off in our sleep."

Roy nodded. "Sounds good. We'll get started tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Dick blinked. "What's wrong with tonight?"

His teammate grinned. "I've got a date with Kalin, tonight."

"Kalin?"

"Yeah, she's in my ecology lab. I know this place down at the South Street Seaport…"

Dick shook his head in disbelief. "Roy, you almost died yesterday, and today you're…"

"Hey, lighten up, Wingster," Roy laughed. "I'm still here, and tomorrow I'll be at practice as usual. But for tonight, I'm going to live it up a little. After all, all work and no play makes Harper a dull boy."

Dick refused to back down. "Don't you get it, Roy? You ran out there half-cocked and got taken out by one surprise too many. You didn't manage to reconnoiter without being seen, when you were seen you didn't hightail it back for reinforcements…"

"Dick," Kory interjected, "that… that was my doing. I knew I could take them. I forgot that Roy couldn't. It won't happen again."

"Hey, whoa! Wait one cotton-picking minute," Roy snapped. "Don't go trying to blame yourself for that one. I knew what I was doing."

"Really?" Dick countered. "Is that how you ended up breathing in a vacuum?"

Roy reddened. "I _know_ I messed up, Mr. Perfect! I don't need you rubbing it in!"

That did it. All of the anger that Dick had been feeling since Bruce had dismissed him as Robin, the hurt at having his phone calls to the manor unreturned, every petty frustration, each small self-doubt, coalesced and magnified into a towering inferno of rage. How _dared_ Roy be so cavalier about yesterday? Didn't he understand? _How dared Roy call him 'perfect'?_

Without warning, he leaned across the table and seized Roy by the front of his shirt. "Listen to me, Harper! This isn't just about you! This is about the team. You mess up, you don't just hurt _you_ , you hurt us! Yesterday, when you got taken out, it meant Kory had to break off her attack to save your hide. It meant _I_ couldn't help in the fighting because I was busy giving you mouth-to-mouth. It meant we didn't collar all of them and because you were injured, we had to give up because we couldn't track them."

Roy placed both his hands on Dick's upper chest and shoved. "What? You mean you didn't share your bat-tracers with anyone else? What a joke. This isn't a team. This is Batboy and his teen flunkies. Well excuse me if for one night, I decide not to jump through your blasted hoops. I'm going to go out, with Kalin. We're going to have a wonderful dinner down at the port. Then, maybe we'll catch a movie, maybe we'll just sit and talk, maybe we'll even come back here for a bit of dessert. Unlike you, I can have a good time without planning every minute of it, and fun isn't something I need to pencil into my day timer between 2:58 and 3:00 every second Monday. What is this? You changed the red, green and yellow for black, blue and gray and suddenly you're Mini-Bat? Well the hell with this," he said angrily. He slid his chair back, not caring that its legs created twin dark grooves in the carpet pile. "And the hell with you, too, Robbie."

"Get out, Roy," Dick said evenly. "Get. Out."

Roy met the steely blue gaze for a moment, and then glanced aside nervously. On the threshold of the room he paused. "This is _my_ crib," he stated. Dick's stare grew positively dangerous. Roy turned hastily. "Just lock the door when you leave."

In the shocked silence that followed, the remaining Titans heard the front door open and click shut behind the departing Roy.

Dick held up a warning hand as Wally opened his mouth to speak. "Don't say it, West," he warned.

"I think you overreacted," Kory stated simply.

"Don't you start either," Dick said, remembering the earlier debriefing. "You take two, I'll take eighteen? What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that in the time it would take Speedy to deal with two, I'd have the rest taken care of," the Tamaranian said. "He actually subdued five within seconds. I was impressed."

"Impressed enough to overlook the fact that he'd stopped breathing? Look, Kory, maybe _you_ don't need oxygen, but you have to keep in mind that most of the other life forms on this planet do. And that takes priority over bashing a few heads, wouldn't you say?"

Koriand'r's green eyes flashed. She picked up her aluminum Zesti can, still more than three-quarters filled with cola. "I understand that you're upset, Dick," she said calmly, "but," she continued, squeezing the can seemingly without thought, "for six years as a slave, I endured words such as yours. Then I had no choice. No more. I will not be spoken to in such a manner by you or by anyone else, ever again." The rest of the Titans started at the loud popping sound. The Zesti can now had an hourglass shape, and dark liquid streamed over the alien girl's hand. The bottom of the can had been shorn nearly completely off, and there was a new puddle on the wooden table.

A muffled sob came from Raven. "Please," the girl whimpered. "Stop. Your emotions are running too high. I-I can't block them. They…" She got up from her chair so quickly it overturned. "HURT!" she cried out as she ran from the room.

Dick opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. He looked around at the faces of his teammates. He saw apprehension, anger, and, more worrying, fear. As his ire began to fade, he heard the echoes of his earlier words in his head. _How could he have said…?_ He knew how. Thanks to the introduction to psychology course that he'd taken the previous semester, he knew exactly how, and why he had said those things. He'd taken every self-doubt and inadequacy he felt, projected it onto his teammates, and taken them to task for it, particularly Roy. He closed his eyes.

"Sorry, gang," he said feebly. "I… I was out of line. I…" He shook his head. "Look, there's no excuse. Sorry." He headed for the front door and nobody tried to stop him.

* * *

_Two days later_

"He _is_ in there," Rachel said softly, the fourth time Dick failed to answer her knock.

Donna hesitated. "Are we pushing things? Should we come back later?"

Rachel closed her eyes. "He is no longer angry, but his inner turmoil is great. I am reading guilt… confusion… shame…" Abruptly she opened her eyes and shook herself as though the physical gesture would break her mental link. "This is wrong. Invading his privacy like this is…"

The door opened abruptly and Dick stood facing them, expression unreadable.

"May we come in?" Donna asked carefully.

Dick appeared to consider the matter. Finally he shrugged and stood aside. The two girls looked around in dismay. Roy had moved into the penthouse over the winter break, leaving Dick with the dorm room to himself. Once assured that no new roommate would arrive this semester, Dick had allowed his personal effects to creep over into the other half of the dorm room. Now, however, the shelves and tabletops were bare of any personal effects. Circus posters that had hung on the walls days earlier had been carefully removed. There was no trace of scotch tape or peeling paint left behind. It was as though the walls had always been bare.

"You're leaving?" Donna asked.

He hesitated. "For now," he admitted finally. "I have to."

"Whaaat?" Wally gasped from the doorway. "Wait. Wait right there. Don't move!" He sped off to return a moment later with Roy and Kory in tow.

"This better be good, Wing," Roy warned. "Fleet Feet over there almost pulled my arm out of its socket dragging me here. He said it was an emergency."

Wally looked away guiltily. "It felt like one," he muttered.

Dick sighed. "I guess it is. Since I don't know when I'll get the chance again, and since you're all here, look. I owe all of you an… an apology for what happened the other day. There's been a lot going on lately, and…" His voice trailed off. "I was mad at myself for messing up, and I took it out on all of you. I was wrong and I'm sorry."

Kory took in the bare walls and packed duffle bags. "So you're just…leaving?"

Dick sighed. "Kory, Roy? Look, about what you said before? You had a point. Every time I haven't known what to do, I've been trying to picture how Batman would handle things. But if Batman were handling things," he grinned suddenly, "the first thing he would've done was told all of us that it was too dangerous and he'd charge in and take care of things himself."

Roy waved his hand frantically in the air. "Been there, tried that, met a psycho terrorist chick who literally knocked the air outta my sails. And if I hadn't had Bubble Bod, over there to pull me out…"

Dick had to smile at that one. Fortunately, Kory didn't seem offended at the nickname. "I know," he agreed. "I'm not saying Batman's right to be this way, it's more… look, I lived with him for six years. I know he's a long way from perfect. What I don't know is why I'm suddenly saying and doing everything to you guys that infuriated _me_ when I was on the receiving end of it. Or maybe I do." He drew a deep breath. "Maybe it's just that I never learned to be anything different." He looked up.

"I've spent the last semester doing two things: trying to prove I'm not just Batman's former sidekick, and trying to prove I'm different from Batman, while," his voice dropped to a rueful murmur, "wearing his colors, second-guessing his strategies, and drilling you guys till you drop." One corner of his mouth curved upward. Around him, the other Titans grinned back.

"Hey!" Donna shot back. "Amazons do _not_ drop."

"Neither do gorgeous archer-dudes!"

Koriand'r hesitated a moment before calling out "Tamaranians!"

"Speedsters!"

"But you still plan to leave," Raven interjected, bringing them all down to Earth again.

Dick sobered. "Yes." He waited for the chorus of "No! Dick, why? Still? You can't!" to fade before he continued. "I just think that before I start figuring out what direction to lead the team, I need to figure out exactly where _I'm_ headed. I just need some away time."

He let his words sink in. One by one, his friends nodded, reluctance and understanding plain in their expressions.

"What about your classes?" Donna ventured.

"I saw the dean yesterday. We discussed things. Basically, I'm dropping three classes and taking the other two through distance education. I'll probably be able to make up at least one, maybe two or even all three over the summer, but for once I'm not planning that far ahead."

"Where will you go?" asked Rachel.

"To tell you the truth, Rae, I don't know," he admitted. "I have a friend in Metropolis who might have some good advice. There's somebody I really want to hook up with in Las Vegas. Part of me just wants to stand on the highway with my thumb out and go as far as my next lift takes me."

Roy beamed. "Now that's an idea. Why not?"

Dick sighed. "With my luck, the ride that stops for me will be a midnight-blue two-seater with turbo jet engines and a bat insignia on the hood. Trust me, Roy. It might be an _idea_ , but it's not a bright one." He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"As far as the team is concerned, Roy, I want you to lead in the field. Donna," he glanced at her, "strategy and planning are your area."

He looked away. "I think this goodbye's gone on long enough, now. Clear out of here, gang, and let me finish packing." Not hearing any movement behind him, he sighed again. "Please?"

The other Titans glanced at each other. Then Kory advanced a few steps toward him and draped a golden-tanned arm about his shoulders. "I am a stranger here," she said simply, when Dick turned to look at her. "You are about to become one elsewhere. You are about to learn that it can be a… hard thing sometimes. And dangerous. Please," she added, "be careful."

Dick nodded. "I-I will," he said with a peculiar catch in his voice.

As though he had uttered some prearranged signal, the other four teens clustered around him, exclaiming their well wishes until Donna herded them away. The last to leave the room, she turned on the threshold.

"Hermes guide you, my friend," she said, "on leave-taking and on your homecoming."

She closed the door softly behind her.

* * *

_Once upon a time, there was a little boy who could fly._ _And each night, when they took away the net, he'd stand at the edge of the ring and watch his parents soar. And he'd dream of the night when he'd get to fly without a net, too._

_I've trained for this. I've prepared. I've checked and rechecked my equipment. I've tested and retested my skills. I'm about to give the same performance I've given night after night since I was twelve years old. But it's not the same act. For the first time in my life, I'm performing without a partner. I'm performing without a safety net, and praying that my training is strong enough to keep me airborne. And, frankly? I'll never let the crowd see it, but I'm scared._


	3. Decisions in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightwing's first stop on his journey of self-discovery? Metropolis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgement: Thanks to NightwingsOracle, Jrfan8, and Starbatz for proofreading. I couldn't have done this without you!
> 
> A/N: Gotham City landmarks culled from Batman: No Man's Land, novelization by Greg Rucka, published by Simon & Shuster (2000).

_Daddy told me when I was young_

_He said it's a long road you've begun_

_Sometimes it's easy_

_Sometimes it's hard_

_But as you walk the road remember who you are_

_You've got to roll with the punches_

_You've got to aim to hit the mark_

_You've got to follow your hunches_

_And try to finish what you start_

_And when you come to the crossroads_

_And you're deciding in the dark_

_You've got to listen to the whisper of your heart_

_Chuck Cannon, "The Whisper of Your Heart"_

* * *

**Part 3: Decisions in the Dark**

_When I was fourteen, Bruce took me skydiving. Don't blame him for that. The whole thing was my idea. Even so, he drilled me in the proper jumping and landing techniques for three months before we chartered that Cessna._

_I wasn't worried. Considering that I was an aerialist before I ever put on the Kevlar, considering that I spent a good portion of my nighttime activities swinging from high-rise to high-rise, you'd think that would've been a breeze. Most nights, I got my jollies by diving off the Babylon Towers. Then, I'd loop my grapnel around the statue of the Zion Lion that sits on top of he GCBC building 2 stories below my launch point. It was vital to build up enough momentum for the next move: once I had the line extended as far as it could go toward Victory Square-I'd drop. Newton's first law of motion would kick in: inertia keeping me going at the same speed and in the same direction, letting me land on one of the rooftops of the Paris Mews Apartments. I only had two chances to make that leap. I usually did it in one. After that, the line would lose too much velocity, the arc would shrink too much and I'd end up dangling like a yoyo. Literally._

_Skydiving just sounded like more high-rise hopping to me, only a bit more exciting. A freefall leap from a plane maybe a few hundred feet higher than Wayne Towers didn't sound any scarier than the usual flight from roof to windowsill. And, when you think about it, the consequences of getting it wrong in either case were about the same: pavement pizza. Usually, I didn't think about it._

_Until I was standing at the exit door to the plane, more than a half-mile up, the wind whipping my hair back, blowing it out straight… and below me, the cloud cover thinned enough that I could see farmland and forests, checkerboards of dark green and light. I thought I was ready. I thought I was up for it. I was a Flying Grayson, for crying out loud-that's what I told Bruce when he tried to talk me out of it. This was supposed to be routine. It wasn't. Much as it pains me to admit it, I froze._

_Bruce pushed me out of the plane finally. I still remember the shock when my feet plunged into empty air. I was going to **kill** him. Then, realization hit. To do that, I'd have to land safely, first. Training took over. My hands remembered when to pull the ripcord. My mind remembered how to steer my descent away from the trees. My body assumed the proper positioning for a smooth landing. Bruce touched down about fifteen seconds after I did, and he looked-for him, anyway-apologetic. I think I cussed him out about seven ways to Sunday before I asked him whether I could try it again. He blinked at me and asked me if I was sure I was ready. I nodded. Now I was._

_Flashing forward to now, it looks like I might have just pulled something like that again. In other words, I think I manoeuvred myself into a position where the only choices I left myself were jump or be pushed. I left the Titans because I didn't know what I was doing and they couldn't figure it out. We'd already had some close calls. Sooner or later, I was going to get them killed. Or they were going to stop listening to me. Roy had already stopped. Truthfully? I didn't know how to handle it. Oh, I knew how Bruce would handle it: glower, say something biting and sarcastic that made it clear he'd already assessed the situation and was five moves ahead of the sap arguing with him (and nine times out of ten, you guessed it folks, that sap was me). But when I tried glowering, Roy either laughed or blew up. And it felt like the others were humouring me. If I tried option number two, I ended up hating myself. I got elbowed in the gut a few times, too, but mostly I just ended up hating myself._

_So, for the good of the team, I decided to take some time off. I did everything I was supposed to: officially withdrew from most of my classes, assigned a replacement-two actually-to lead the Titans, sold my Honda so I could finance my travels without tapping Bruce… I took care of everything. I thought I was ready for that next big leap. But right at this moment, while I'm standing in line at the ticket counter at the Port Authority bus terminal, I'm freezing up again._

_This is the first time in I don't know how long that I haven't planned out every step. The only plan I had in my head was to look up at the departure board and pick a destination. There's a bus to Hub City leaving in 30 minutes. I could take the express to Keystone and be there inside of four hours. But who do I know there that I'd want to look up? There's only one person ahead of me in the queue, now. I glance again at the board. The Greyhound to Vegas leaves at noon. I'd be in transit for over 24 hours. And…what am I supposed to say to Babs when I get there? She made it clear before she left that she needed some time away from everything; that she wanted to make a fresh start. I've called her once or twice She's always on her way out the door. Is she seeing anyone? Do I really want to know? If I do…_

_Someone gives me a little push. Seems to be the story of my life. I see that a new window has just opened up. The man behind it is beckoning impatiently. I apologize and dash over. "Metropolis. One-way," I say. My voice is steady, but my mind reels. Of all the places I could pick, why did I choose Superman's home turf?_

* * *

Five days later, as Dick explored Metropolis' Chinatown, he was still asking himself that same question. It wasn't that he and Superman weren't on good terms-they were, but they rarely worked together. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent lived in different cities and moved in very different social circles. Superman operated in broad daylight. Batman preferred the night and the shadows. Batman planned out his courses of actions, considered the consequences, and, at any given time, had a minimum of 5 fallback positions. Superman lived very much in the moment. And yet, despite the fact that Superman was, hands-down, more approachable and gregarious than Batman ever was, it was Batman who had taken in and trained a junior partner. It just made no sense.

When he got back to Hudson, Dick thought, he was _definitely_ going to sign up for another psychology class next term. He smiled to himself.

He glanced around him at the colourful street signs and marquees covered with pictograms. Bruce had taught him some Chinese, but that had been several years ago and Dick hadn't used it for a while. Experimentally, he scanned the symbols, while making an effort to avoid their English translations. He estimated that he recognized perhaps three words in ten. Around him voices called out loud greetings, and sales pitches, mostly in Cantonese, which he understood somewhat, Mandarin, which he understood somewhat less, and Vietnamese, which he understood not at all. Suddenly, he paused. _That particular conversation_ _sounded like trouble_ …

"Ling!" The woman's deep contralto erupted with the rough raw force of a bellows-forge. "I thought I told you to keep your skanky self as far from this neighbourhood as you frelling could!"

The youth sneered as she unhooked a set of nunchukus from her waistband. "Oh, you did, Choi," she smirked, as she twirled the linked clubs in her right hand. "You did. But," she added, as she reached a heavily gloved hand into her pocket, "I don't believe you have the power to stop me." With that, she withdrew her left hand from her pocket, holding aloft three shuriken throwing stars, their points barbed and razor-sharp. A quick snap of her wrist sent all three flying.

Choi, who had been distracted by the spinning nunchukus, cried out as one star embedded itself below the hollow of her throat. Another sank into her shoulder. The last tore into the opposite arm. "You're going to freakin' die, you little $!#!" She shouted. She tore the shuriken from her flesh, ignoring the fresh pain, and the blood that flowed freely from her wounds. Blindly, she charged her opponent.

Ling stepped aside, smoothly. "One of us will today, Choi, but not I."

The larger woman howled as she launched herself a second time toward the lithe teen.

"Slowing down, Choi?" The girl taunted. "Feeling sick to your stomach? Drooling?"

The woman's eyes grew wide. "What did you do?" she gasped. At Ling's giggle, she lunged. "Answer me, you-!"

Casually, Ling moved out of Choi's path of attack and disdainfully planted her boot in the bigger woman's face. "Coated the shuriken with cane toad venom," she said mockingly, as she returned the nunchukus to the hook on her belt. "Take a good look at the sun, Dog's Daughter, for it is the last time you shall ever see it!"

Dick had heard enough. He had heard more than enough. Under most circumstances, upon seeing a teenaged girl accosted by a woman, older, heavier, and presumably stronger, he would have instinctively joined the fight in defence of the younger opponent. That would have been a mistake, he realized.

He reached into the pocket of his pants for his mask. There was neither time nor place to change fully into costume. It didn't matter. In Metropolis, Dick Grayson's face was hardly likely to elicit recognition. The mask was a precaution, nothing more-a safety measure in case Bruce's chief business rival was keeping tabs on him. It was unlikely, Dick admitted. Luthor, in all likelihood, neither knew nor cared where Bruce Wayne's ward was, at any given time. Still, Dick reflected, displaying his skills openly probably wasn't the brightest move he could make.

It only took a second to don the mask, which suited Dick fine. Assuming that the girl was telling the truth, he needed to get Choi to a doctor, quickly. Cane toad venom was nasty stuff. _One of the poisons that certain ninja orders prefer_ , he remembered suddenly. Was Ling…

Dick charged toward the melee, dropping into a fighting crouch as he drew near the battling women.

Without skipping a beat, Ling deployed two more shuriken in his direction. Faster than thought, Dick flung himself to one side to evade the metal projectiles. "Nice to know I don't have to go to Hollywood to see the stars," he quipped. If he'd had any doubts about whose side to join in, they were vanishing quickly.

With a snarl, Ling seized hold of the nunchukus.

Dick groaned inwardly. His escrima sticks were sheathed in the holsters built into the Nightwing costume, behind his back, under his shirt and ski jacket. Getting them out was going to be next to impossible. He only had two 'nightarangs' on him (the rest were stored in one of the compartments of the gauntlets he was not wearing at the moment), and he wasn't at all sure he wanted to use them up now. After all, he thought as he plunged a hand into his jacket pocket, he did have other tools at his disposal…

Resigned, he flipped over Ling's head to land behind her. As she turned, he seized her wrist, pinning it against his chest with one hand while he relieved her of the linked clubs with the other.

"Let go of me!" She snapped.

Dick tossed the weapon aside and twisted her other arm behind her back. The girl brought her foot down hard on his instep. He winced. That was a street-fighting move. After observing her attack on Choi, he'd had a feeling she might try something like that. Although Ling demonstrated more than a cursory knowledge of ninjitsu weaponry and combat techniques, she was clearly no ninja if she employed such a move. Fortunately, he was prepared for it.

" _Poq gai_!" Ling shouted as he relaxed his grip on her.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Dick rolled his eyes.

Ling was about to respond when a meaty hand came down on her shoulder. She whirled directly into a sucker punch, which connected with her jaw. Ling fell to the ground. Choi followed up the punch with a kick to the ribs.

"You frelling poisoned me!" Choi shouted, aiming another kick.

Ling rolled away from it and toward a fire escape. Quickly she regained her footing, and bounded up the metal stair.

Dick let her go, turning to the angry woman left behind. "You okay?" He asked Choi.

"Get her!" Choi replied angrily.

"I'd better find you a doctor," he said, ignoring her. "That toxin-" he dodged as Choi lunged for him, barely evading her grab.

"Do I look like I need a frigging doctor?" She demanded. "Go grab the little skank before she gets away!"

Choi had a point, Dick realized. She seemed to have shaken off the effects of the cane toad venom in moments. _How was that possible_? He wondered, as a possible answer suggested itself Helooked around. The teenaged girl was nowhere to be seen. "Too late," he said. "What was all that about, anyway?"

For a moment, he thought that she was going to try to slug him again, but then she shook her head, wearily.

"Her name is Ling," Choi nearly spat the name out. "She leads the Ghost Dragons. Does the name 'Dorance' mean anything to you?" Seeing Dick's blank expression, she sniffed. "Of course it frigging doesn't. He's the stinking piece of garbage that gets the heroin into the Ghost Dragons' hands. They get it out on the street for him." Her eyes went flat. "Not _this_ bloody street, though. Not while I'm alive. And that little two-bit whore knows it." She launched into a stream of obscenities so virulent that they probably would have made Dick's hair curl, if it didn't already do so naturally.

"She knows you're meta?" He hazarded a guess.

Choi flinched, then shrugged. "You look like me, it's no freaking secret," she replied. "'Course now she just frelling found out that frigging poisons don't work on me for long." She scowled. "It means they'll probably try something else next time. There's only one person in this city who bounces bullets off his chest and it ain't me."

Dick nodded. "So, what happens now?"

"Now?" She sniffed. "You take off the Halloween mask, go back to the safer parts of town and forget you saw me or her or any of this. I'm going to hit them before they hit me."

His eyes narrowed. He started to say something, but she turned her back. "Go on. Get the frig out of here. This has nothing to do with you."

Silently he nodded, and retreated the way he had come.

* * *

It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that Choi stepped out onto the main thoroughfare. The sun was setting, as a masked figure in blue and black strode forward to meet her.

"I thought I bloody told you…" She began.

Nightwing held up a small electronic device. "I slapped a homing beacon on Ling when we fought, before," he grinned. "Now we know where to look."

Choi scowled at him. "Freaking kids with their Freaking toys think they know so Freaking much," she muttered. "I suppose you have some stupid 'I-don't-kill-the-freaks-no-matter-how-freaking-mu ch-they-freaking-deserve-it code of honour too, right?"

Nightwing held his palms out at shoulder height. "Afraid so."

Choi sighed. "That just about freaking figures."

As the two proceeded down the street a figure slipped into a phone booth nearby and furtively dialled a number.

* * *

_How do I get myself into these things? Seriously? I was in street clothes, this time. It was broad daylight. I was walking in plain view in a public space. Was I looking for trouble? Did I flash a wallet full of cash in Suicide Slum? Was I spoiling for a fight? I guess it's true what Bruce says: crime never takes a vacation… so crime fighters don't get to do it either. I thought he was just being obsessive, but maybe it goes beyond that. Maybe it's that if you spend enough time in a Kevlar suit, you just don't get out of the mindset. If I could turn back the clock to when I heard Choi and Ling shouting at each other, knowing that if I interfered, less than an hour later, I'd be off to deal a major blow to Metropolis' illegal drug industry, would I decide I didn't want to get involved after all? Maybe. I don't want to get involved right at this moment, come to think of it. Doesn't change anything though. I am involved. Metropolis isn't my home, but it doesn't matter. I can't leave things for Superman to deal with any more than I could walk away from something in Gotham and trust that Bruce… or Alan Scott, for that matter, would deal with it. It's not a question of whether Superman could handle the situation-I know darned well he could. But right now, he's not around, and I am._

_Choi's told me about the Ghost Dragons. From her description, it's going to be like fighting the Triads in Gotham: tricky, but doable. They're martial artists, hand-to-hand combat fighters first and foremost, but they also use bladed weapons. That's going to count against me. The Nightwing suit is bullet-proof, sure-but Kevlar isn't much good when it comes to slashing and stabbing. And these people aren't above using poison. I've got a snakebite kit on me, not to mention some standard anti-toxins and an epi-pen. The problem is, in order to use any of the antivenins, I need to know ahead of time exactly what the 'Dragons are using on their blades-it's not like there's a universal anti-poison vaccine. The epi-pen isn't a cure for anything, but it'll buy me an hour or so to get to a hospital. Of course, I could just play it smart, and not let them get close enough to cut me._

_Dorance is going to be the main problem, though. He's a relative newcomer to the city-arrived in '97 after Hong Kong reverted to China. Over the course of the next three years, he virtually cornered the Metropolis heroin market. In the over five years since, nobody's been able to launch a credible challenge to his position. From what Choi's said, the ones who try… either end up working for Dorance, or they end up lying in an alley dead of an OD._

_I'm used to dealing with the costumed crazies. Dorance doesn't wear a costume. And his methods, brutal though they are, sound all too sane to me. Yet, here I am, about to track him down and take him out. It's just me, my weapons and gadgets, and some muscled backup who's going to be only too eager to finish Dorance off permanently. I'll probably have to hold her back._

_Now, just in case you're wondering why I'm bringing her along in the first place, three reasons. One: I know what it's like to take a pounding. I'd want a rematch, and she's entitled. Two: as long as I know where I stand with Choi, I'd rather keep her where I can keep an eye on her and stop her from doing something drastic. I know. It's going to be fun. Sigh. Three: call me nuts, but I don't want to engage a gang of street-fighters and a heroin kingpin without backup. And at least it doesn't look like I'm going to have to worry about Choi getting herself killed so easily. In this line of work, sometimes you have to take who you can get._

* * *

The blond man sat erect in a velvet-upholstered armchair, his bare feet sunk into the rich-textured carpet. His elbows rested on the grooved teak armrest. His hands were clasped together and steepled against his breastbone.

"I am puzzled, Ling," he said softly. "I sent you to neutralize the woman, Choi, after you yourself alerted me to the threat she posed to our organization. I offered you the assistance of your fellow Ghost Dragons in defeating this opponent. You declined their aid, however, did you not, Ling?"

"I did, Sir Edmund," Ling replied calmly. Her palms were sweating, but he would hear her, were she to wipe them on her pants. It would never do to display weakness before such a man.

"And yet, Grace Choi lives, Ling." His whisper sliced across the room like the lash of a whip.

"She does, Sir Edmund."

"As do you." The whisper grew dangerous. "How is this so, Ling? You failed… and yet you return to me…alive and whole. Pray. Enlighten me."

Ling swallowed. "Choi had help, Sir Edmund. A youth intervened. We fought."

Sir Edmund leaned forward. "A youth, you say," he murmured. "Elaborate. You were no match for him?"

The danger was past, for now. Ling fought not to sigh in relief. "I could have taken him myself, Sir Edmund. Or I could have taken Choi. I was ill-prepared for the two together."

Her interrogator mulled the words over. "Possible." He raised his head suddenly, giving Ling a full view of his opaque, sightless eyes. "Tell me, Ling: what skills does this youth possess? Jujitsu? Aikido?"

Ling considered. "Difficult to assess, Sir Edmund. His attack began swiftly and ended with equal speed. But…" Her voice trailed off.

"Continue," Sir Edmund said. "But… what?"

"He attacked to subdue," Ling proclaimed triumphantly. "He did not seek to kill! That's his weakness!"

Sir Edmund Dorance did not share in her excitement. "That may well be, Girl," he replied dryly. "However, it does beg the question… if his interest was only to subdue, while yours was to kill, how is it that he continues to walk free while you do as well? If his refusal to kill is his weakness, then Girl, where was _your_ strength?" His hand gestured negligently toward her.

Ling's mouth dropped open. "Sir Edmund, I-" She cried out as wiry arms pinioned her arms behind her back. "No!" She kicked back frantically to no avail.

"You failed me, Ling," Dorance decreed. "I relied on you and you abrogated your charge. You have disappointed me. I am not a man who takes disappointment lightly."

"Give me another chance," she pleaded. "I will deal with them-both of them, Sir Edmund! I swear it!"

Dorance considered. "It is possible," he reflected. "Oftentimes, an early setback pushes the defeated one to strive harder to overcome the obstacles placed in his-or her-path. Yes," he nodded to himself, "you might indeed be able to accomplish your mission in a second attempt." He lowered his head for a moment, then raised it again.

"However, it does leave me with a dilemma. To allow you a second opportunity to prove yourself could be construed by my rivals as a show of weakness. And, should you fail again, it would make my own position almost as precarious as yours is at this moment."

Despite herself, Ling shuddered.

"And yet…"

She glanced up, a wild hope in her eyes. Dorance never saw it, but he understood her sudden intake of breath, and its slow release. He smiled.

"And yet, a gentleman cannot kill a lady. That's just not on. Still, I cannot allow your discretion to go unpunished. Bobbo?"

Ling struggled desperately as her captor replied. "Yes, Sir Edmund?"

"Punish her Bobbo. Memorably. And Bobbo? Nothing _too_ dire."

"Yes, Sir Edmund."

* * *

Nightwing and Choi approached the glass-and-steel construction cautiously. "Hold it," he ordered as he stretched out an arm to block Choi's progress, and drew her beneath the awning of a nearby office tower. "Let's get our bearings." Nightwing studied the Dorance Tower building intently. "Ritzy place," he remarked.

Choi sniffed. "Word on the street is he could build one of these in Gotham and another in New York and still not hurt for cash. Plenty of money to be made in his business, if you don't care who you hurt."

There was a brittle edge to the bitterness of her tone. For one instant, she reminded him a little of Roy. "You okay?"

Nightwing was almost positive that she was going to lash out at him again. Her body tensed, and he braced for a physical assault. Choi stood, bristling. Then, she subsided. "I ran away when I was about ten," she said tonelessly. "Things… happened. The same kinds of things that statistics tell you generally happen to kids on the street. I got… hurt. And I started using."

Clearly, she didn't anymore. "And?"

"Freaking meta power showed its bloody self when I was twelve. You saw how fast I got that poison out of my system before? It works that way for goddamned drugs too. It…" She sniffed. "I'd try OD-ing. I thought if I put enough of that garbage in my veins fast enough, maybe I'd outrun my frigging power. Never happened. I tried slitting my wrists. Cuts healed right up. Couldn't get my hands on a gun. Maybe I was wrong about bouncing bullets before. I just-"

"Never stayed still long enough to see if you were bullet-proof?"

"What the hell kind of a freaking moron do you think I am?" She demanded hotly. "You think I want to take that kind of bloody chance?"

Nightwing shook his head, smiling. "Just checking. Glad you're over the death-wish. I wanted to know that _before_ we went inside."

Choi snorted. "I still have the death-wish," she retorted. "I'm just wishing it on someone else these days. How do you plan on getting in?"

He'd been wondering the same thing. "I don't suppose you're any good at scaling the walls, are you?"

"Hell, no!"

He nodded. "Alright. Stay put." He took a few steps away from the shelter of the awning. Choi watched his progress. Her eyes widened. She hadn't looked away for an instant, but somehow, impossibly, he had vanished into the shadows.

* * *

Thirty-eight minutes later, Choi jumped as a gauntleted hand touched her elbow. She started swearing. "You're going to give me a goddamned heart attack!"

Nightwing grinned. "You'd get over it."

"How the hell do you know? What took you so freaking long, anyway?"

"I was checking out the security systems," he explained. "I rigged the cameras at the main entrance so they're looping the same footage: a clear front walk and empty foyer. I was also able to tap in and reset Dorance's computer clock from pm to am."

Choi blinked. "What good's that gonna do?"

"At 8:38 pm," Nightwing explained, nobody can get into the building without a key card. At 8:38 _am_ , on the other hand…"

"The main doors are unlocked. Crap." She shook her head in wonder. "So what happens, now?"

Nightwing hesitated. "We go in. Separately. You start at ground floor. See if you can find out where Dorance is keeping his product. If it's actually in the building-and it might not be-just take note of it and get out fast. If the… Ghost Dragons are around, or rentacops, or what have you…"

Choi scowled. "You want me to freaking stick to your goddamned rulebook and not kill 'em, right?"

"Yes."

"And if I tell you where you can shove that goddamned rulebook? What the freak you going to do about it?"

_Good question. The kind of question Speedy might have asked him last week. And he wouldn't have had an answer beyond 'or else'. But Choi wasn't Speedy. They had no history, and she had no real reason to trust him. Plus, if he slugged her, she'd probably break him in half._

Nightwing sighed. "I can't do anything about it, Choi," he admitted. "I don't want to fight you. I sure as hell can't stop you. But I really hope you won't. It'll mean that deep down where it counts, you're exactly like the people you're trying to stop."

Choi opened her mouth to protest. Nightwing continued.

"I know, Choi. Its not like you've got a… a difference of opinion with them. They're scum, pure and simple. Maybe they don't deserve to live. Maybe, the world _would_ be better off without them. But answer me this: do _you_ deserve to become a killer?"

She was silent. At the very least, she seemed to be considering his words. Encouraged, he went on.

"You know, if you do follow through, one of two things is going to happen when word gets out. First possibility: the police will arrest you. There'll be a trial. And I gotta tell you, whatever the justification, if you kill someone when you're breaking and entering, there's a very strong chance you're going to do some serious time. If they charge you with felony murder, you could be facing the death penalty.

"Or, second possibility: they'll _try_ to arrest you. You'll resist, and in the scuffle, maybe someone else will die. Maybe you. Maybe a cop. Maybe an innocent bystander. That kind of thing can destroy a person.

"Choi, I can't force you to follow my rules. But I can ask you-and you don't have to answer me, as long as you answer yourself." Dick drew a deep breath. "If the only way to beat them is to kill them, and if by killing them, you end up destroying yourself, _who really beats who_?"

The words had come out more plaintively than he had intended. He waited for her to laugh in his face, or tell him what he could go do with his ideals. She didn't. Barely perceptibly, Choi nodded. "I go in at ground level," she repeated his earlier statement. "And you?"

Nightwing exhaled. "I'm going to start at the roof and work my way down."

* * *

Dick watched Choi enter Dorance Tower without mishap. Once she disappeared past the foyer, he skirted the outer perimeter of the building, searching for a place to pitch his grapnel. His eyes narrowed. He _loathed_ these towers with windows for walls. The risk of smashing one when he tossed the grappling hook was too great. The building next door, however, had possibilities. It was an older brick edifice, with cornices, stone projections… and exterior fire escapes. True, it was about eight stories lower than Dorance tower, but Nightwing wasn't overly concerned. In moments, he had reached the roof of the brick building.

He looked across at his destination and smiled. He cast his grapnel and it sailed straight and true to loop around the aircraft beacon light on the roof of Dorance Tower. As he had done for years in Gotham, Nightwing sailed across the gap between the two buildings, retracting the monofilament cable as he went, so that it pulled him inexorably upwards. He landed on the roof in a neat somersault and moved at once to inspect the door leading inside. It yielded easily to his lock pick and opened to reveal a flight of stairs. Cautiously, he descended.

A moment later, he emerged from the stairwell into what appeared to be an opulent suite of rooms. Nightwing frowned. From the contours of the furnishings surrounding him, he seemed to be standing in someone's living quarters. He waited for his star-lite nightvision lenses to compensate for the darkness. All at once, he froze. Someone was coming.

He heard an elevator open and someone stepped out. Nightwing ducked behind one of the ornate pillars supporting the ceiling of the room and waited nervously for the lights to flicker on, but they never did. After a moment, a solidly-built man strode purposefully into view. He stalked past Nightwing and into a kitchen beyond him. Nightwing watched as he opened the refrigerator and removed several jars. He then opened one of the cabinets and, without looking, extracted a small canister.

Realization struck. The man was blind. That would probably work to his advantage, Dick reflected. As long as he was quiet, he should be able to observe the man in his quarters, and leave once the man either departed or retired for the night. Dick watched as the man put together a sandwich and salad, finished both, and left his plate in the sink. The man nodded to himself, and placed his hand against the kitchen wall. And the room suddenly plunged into blackness.

It took Dick a moment to realize that every window-blind in the apartment had suddenly unfurled to it full length. In total darkness, his night-vision lenses were useless. Still, they automatically adjusted to their maximum setting-to no avail.

The darkness was nearly tangible in its intensity. In his mind, it seemed that the ceiling was but inches overhead. Nightwing kept the palm of his hand upon the pillar, finding its solidity somehow reassuring.

Without warning, the light surged back onward at maximum intensity. It blinded him as it stabbed into lenses meant for near-absolute blackness, and Nightwing could not keep from crying out as his world shifted from inky blackness to impenetrable yellow.

"I _thought_ I had a visitor," an Oxford-accented voice declared as Dick slapped a hand protectively over his eyes. "Attacking the King Snake in his lair is a foolhardy move."

Nightwing heard soft footfalls approaching.

"I only wish I could see you die."


	4. Beyond the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped by King Snake, Nightwing will need all his training and wits to get out of this one!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Special thanks as usual to my betas, Charlene, Debbie, and Kalin. Thanks to Samantha Lynn Burton and DP Lyle, MD for medical background information. Any errors or distortions are mine and mine alone.

_When… every lesson learned_

_Every corner turned_

_Ends up as a winding road_

_Don't be afraid_

_Sometimes you've got to talk into the dark_

_To find your way beyond the shadows_

_Jo Dee Messina "Keep the Faith"_

**Beyond the Shadows**

**  
**(Then)

_I don't know what wakes me up: the cold, the hard surface on which I'm lying, or some sort of background noise. One thing I do know, however, is that I'm not in my bedroom, anymore._

" _Bruce?"_

…

" _Bruce?"_

…

" _This is all some sort of training exercise, isn't it?"_

…

" _Bruce?" Maybe it isn't. Maybe I've been kidnapped. Maybe it's by someone counting on me to spill who He really is. In which case, I'd better stop using that name. "Batman?"_

_Silence. I look around. That's pretty pointless. I'm lying on something hard. I can hear scrabbling noises overhead, like something's scuttling around above me. There's water flowing somewhere. Maybe not too far… it smells damp in here, and it's definitely chilly. Scratch that. It's cold. I move my hands over my chest and touch flannel. Ditto for the legs. I'm still in my pyjamas. My feet are freezing. No wonder. I'm barefoot and the floor is ice-cold. It seems to be stone, uneven and pretty sandy-which means it's probably natural rock and not cement. I can't see a thing, though. I put my hand to my eyes. No blindfold. And my arms and legs are free. I wave my hand. I can feel the faint breeze it makes… but I can't see a thing._

_I sit up. "Anyone there?"_

_There is no light whatsoever in here. Without it, even though from the way my voice was echoing, this place is probably huge, the darkness feels oppressive. It's hovering over me like a blanket, so close I could reach out and nearly touch it…and it's waiting to drop down…_

Get a grip, Grayson! You're practically thirteen, already. Stop acting like a baby. Ooh! The dark is gonna fall and get me. Help. Sheesh!

_I lean slightly to my left and feel a wall. Like the floor, it seems to be natural rock. I AM in a cave. Can't assume that it's THE cave, but the scrabbling sound is probably bats. And there IS a stream on the manor grounds. I don't know whether it goes through the cave-Bruce made me swear, on pain of getting fired, not to go exploring without him-but it wouldn't surprise me._

_I rise to my feet, half expecting to bang my head on the ceiling. Stupid. From the way sound carries, I know intellectually that there's got to be a good eight feet or more between my skull and the roof. It's still a relief when I don't knock against anything. I keep one hand on the wall, the other outstretched before me. Cautiously, I move forward, almost shuffling. No way to know how safe it is to step down. I close my eyes. Weird. Somehow, even though vision-wise, it makes no difference whether they're open or shut, it's easier to move with my eyelids down. I wonder why._

_It takes forever to navigate my way through. I lose all sense of direction, just sticking to 'my' wall, but it doesn't let me down. Eventually, I feel cold wind brush past me. I open my eyes. Light filters faintly through to me about four feet above my head. The rock wall is easy to climb. Galvanized, I scramble up, wriggle though the hole, into a tunnel and toward the night beyond. As my head and shoulders clear the opening, strong hands grip me under my armpits and pull me the rest of the way through._

" _Twenty-one minutes, thirty-seven seconds," Batman says. "Acceptable."_

_Acceptable. That's more praise than I usually get. "You…" I start to say, then stop. What good is it going to do to yell at him? Sure, he could have warned me, but that would have defeated the purpose of the exercise, wouldn't it have? Still, I wouldn't mind a LITTLE more information…_

" _Why?" I demand._

_He looks at me quizzically. If he were Mr. Spock, this would be the perfect time for him to raise an eyebrow. For all I know, he is. The cowl hides a few things. "You tell me."_

_Right. If I don't understand the lesson, then I obviously missed the point. I struggle to control my temper. Nobody really likes going to sleep in a nice warm bed and waking up on a cold stone floor-I've got every right to be angry. But for all I know, this is also supposed to be a test of my self-control. I draw a deep breath. "You wanted to know how I'd handle it if I found myself in… in…" how do I phrase it? "In an unknown situation, with very little means to assess where I was or how to get out of it."_

_Batman starts to nod, then stiffens. He's about to say something when he notices that I'm shivering. No wonder. It may be unseasonably mild for the time of year, but it's still February in the Northeastern United States, and I'm still only in my PJs-barefoot._

_Suddenly, there's a cape wrapped around me, and he's scooping me up. I start to protest that I'm not a baby, but if he puts me down… I look around to get my bearings and groan. The Wayne estate is huge. Where we are now has to be about a ten-minute walk from the manor. I try doing that without shoes and I'll probably have frostbite by the time I get there. Fine. He got me out here; it's only fair he get me back inside. But I don't have to like it._

_Back at the manor, Alfred takes one look at us, pieces the situation together on the spot, and gives Bruce a hard stare. I glance up at Bruce's expression and try not to laugh. The last time I saw anything remotely similar on Batman's face, he'd staggered in from patrol after inhaling a concentrated burst of Scarecrow's fear gas-and, trust me, he was in much better shape after THAT incident. Then Alfred heads off to the kitchen muttering something about making a pot of cocoa._

_Bruce sets me down. I'm still grinning. Forget Ghirardelli, this time-Alfred's probably going to break out a Toblerone bar, he's going to melt it down, and then, he's going to add marshmallows to it._

" _You're alright?" He asks, softly._

_I nod._

" _I'm sorry," he says, sounding genuinely upset. "I can't believe I put you through that without giving you adequate protection from the elements."_

_I shrug. We're indoors, now. My memory of the cold is fading fast. His eyes narrow._

" _You said you had 'little' means to assess your situation?"_

_Holy… did he underestimate me? Sounds like it. I tell him about the sounds and the smells. He listens, and nods. I see the faintest hint of a smile._

" _Well done."_

_Whoa. I can't remember the last time he's said that to me. Heck, in the nine months since I've come to the manor… in the six weeks since he's been letting me go out as Robin… I don't think he's EVER said that to me. I realize I'm still wearing the cape and slip it off and hand it back to him._

_He hesitates. "You might want to keep it. It wouldn't surprise me if you were to wear it again some night down the road."_

* * *

(Now)

Nightwing held himself motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. That trick King Snake had pulled with the lights had rattled him, but the game wasn't over yet.

He considered. His opponent knew how to fight blind, and how to maximize his advantages against a sighted opponent. Most other adversaries would be fumbling around about now. But most other adversaries hadn't been trained by Batman. That night he'd woken up in the cave had been but the first of many. Dick was out of practice, true, but some things were like riding a bike. He hoped.

_Think!_ He ordered himself. _King Snake may believe he's got you at a disadvantage, but all he's really done is level the playing field. You_ know _there's a lot more to fighting a man than being able to see him._

His opponent was padding toward him softly, surely, _almost_ inaudibly-but not quite. The man knew the layout of his apartment perfectly, Nightwing realized. Well, he could fix that…

Trusting to memory, Nightwing squeezed his eyes shut and flipped backwards to land noisily atop the wooden table he had noticed upon entering the room.

"You move swiftly, but clumsily, my friend," King Snake remarked. "A pity you shan't have the chance to improve."

Nightwing bit back the automatic retort. Reaching directly before him, his fingers slid over the smooth wooden back of a dining room chair. He gripped it tightly, straightened, and hurled it in the general direction of his assailant. There was a satisfying thud as the chair landed sideways on the carpet. Without hesitation, Nightwing turned and groped for another chair. He threw it in the direction of a large earthenware urn he'd noted earlier, and was rewarded by a cracking sound as wood met clay. Two more chairs to go… now where- The next toss dislodged a marble statue from its pedestal—it crashed to the floor with a loud thud. The final chair, he heaved directly at the regular, even breathing that came from slightly to his left. Then, he leapt for the chandelier overhead, hoping that he had judged its distance accurately. And that it would take his weight.

King Snake leapt away from the airborne chair, pivoted, and stumbled as he fell heavily into the one lying on the carpet. The blind man swore furiously as he dropped to one knee. "You will regret that!" He snapped as he struggled to regain his footing.

Meanwhile, from his perch atop the chandelier Nightwing took stock of the situation. If he could buy himself a few more minutes, chances were his vision would return. _Then King Snake puts out the lights again and you're back to square one_ , he realized. He thought for a moment, and then pulled a roll of gauze out from his belt compartment. It was mesh, not solid, he reflected, but with several layers of thickness wrapped about his eyes, it would do. After he finished tying the bandage, Nightwing used his fingers to explore the crystal pieces of the chandelier. Thoughtfully, he detached several long rods that tapered to notched spear points. He tensed, listening for his adversary.

King Snake was moving again. If he didn't already know where Nightwing had gotten to, he would shortly. Dick was gratified to note that the man was no longer walking stealthily. Now, unsure of his footing, he was fumbling his way about. _Let's just see whether we can't keep him disoriented._ He flung the crystals randomly with all his strength. He then reached down to remove a few more from beneath his perch, making sure to take equal amounts from all sides in order to maintain his balance.

Some pieces landed intact on the plush carpeting. Others shattered against walls and pillars, tinkling merrily as they fell to the floor in shards.

He would have to be careful, from here on, Nightwing realized as he tossed his grapnel in the general direction of one of the support pillars and felt it take hold. Trashing the room could trip him up as easily as it could King Snake. He tugged on the filament to make sure it was securely anchored, then leapt, giving the chandelier a mighty kick as he did.

The chandelier swung crazily back and forth, as pendants and bobeches clinked noisily against each other. King Snake spun automatically toward the sound.

_All right, Grayson. This is where it gets tricky. He's used to relying on his other senses. You can take that away from him, but not without it affecting your own skills. On the plus side, you're expecting it. You can take steps. And you'll probably recover first. On the minus side, at best, right now, you're evenly matched. At best. He's bigger than you. He's heavier than you. And from what Choi told you, he's a lot more ruthless than you. Oh, and you just made him mad. If you're going to put yourself at more of a disadvantage, you'd better make really sure it's worth it._

And that was the crux of it. Nightwing realized as he carefully slid down to the carpet. He could continue rearranging the furniture until one or the other tired. He might well win. As long as he could avoid direct hand-to-hand combat until he could see his opponent, he stood a chance. _But once Dorance gets his hands on me, I'm sunk. I can't fight a top-level martial artist if I can't read his body language, and I can't do that if I can't see._ _But if I have to go to plan B, let's hope I recover first…_

Something blunt and heavy slammed into his chest, the impact smashing him against the pillar. The dining room table. The man had just thrown the blasted table at him. Nightwing gasped as his ribs screamed in protest. The table rebounded-fortunately King Snake had hurled it, rather than _swung_ it-and Nightwing dropped on all fours to the carpet. Stifling a groan he scuttled behind he pillar, keeping it between himself and his assailant.

_Plan B it is_ , he thought to himself, as he pulled a pair of earplugs out of one of his gauntlet compartments.

* * *

Thirty-five stories below, Grace Choi stalked down a sub-basement corridor, doing her best not to be heard. Her best wasn't quite good enough. If profanity could kill, the six youths in Ghost Dragon red and blue gang colours would be dead in their tracks. Instead, their leader, a youth who couldn't be more than sixteen, charged forward, a battle cry on his lips.

Choi sneered as she moved directly into the path of his attack. The boy hit hard, but she didn't stagger. He gasped in pain and surprise.

"Like hitting a frigging wall, isn't it?" She snapped as she seized hold of the youth, and hauled him up by the back of his jacket. Grabbing the waistband of his jeans with her other hand, she threw him in the direction of his companions. The boy screamed a warning to them as he flew. One took it, turned and tried to run. The others were too slow to react as he tumbled into them, sending them sprawling and sliding, burying the one who had tried to run in a tidal wave of humanity.

Choi picked her way among the groaning teens, paying little heed to whether she stepped over or on top of splayed limbs. Bending down, she slid her hands under the armpits of the boy who had attempted to flee, and held the dazed youth in front of her, his feet dangling a foot above the floor.

"You look like the smartest one of these freaks," she snarled. "Where's Dorance's lab?"

* * *

One of the nicest things about using flashbangs, Nightwing reflected, was that they didn't actually have to hit their targets—they just had to land nearby.

King Snake was trying to sneak up on him, but he kept banging into the disarranged furniture. His shoes crunched on the crystal shards. And, when he stumbled and fell to the floor, Nightwing heard his sharp intake of breath, as broken glass penetrated the larger man's skin and clothing.

For now, Nightwing had one thing going for him. As long as he held his position, he knew exactly where his opponent was—fumbling in the dark, looking for him. Once he started moving, however, King Snake would hear him. But staying put wasn't an option. Not indefinitely, anyway.

Nightwing primed the grenade, tossed it toward his adversary and turned away, averting his bound eyes. The M84 would produce a one-million Candela flash—lost on a blind man, but possibly powerful enough to penetrate even the young vigilante's gauze bandage. More importantly, though, it would emit a blast of over 170 decibels.

Despite wearing his earplugs, despite expecting the 'bang' part of the 'flashbang grenade', the noise startled him. But its effect on Nightwing was minimal compared to King Snake's reaction.

The man shrieked, clapping his hands to his ears, and Nightwing felt the floor vibrate as his opponent, startled off-balance, fell into the nearly-forgotten dining room table and crashed heavily to the ground.

Nightwing cautiously lifted several layers of his blindfold. The lights were still on, and, from what he could tell, it was no brighter than a normal room should be. From what he could tell. He frowned. His sight was starting to come back, although right now, everything appeared to him as a collection of blurs. He didn't need full vision to know that the room was a shambles. Dick edged carefully toward the wall, sliding his hand along until it found a doorknob. He didn't like the idea of leaving his adversary groaning on the floor, but there was no way that he was going to go picking his way through that mess to try to cuff the man… not if that meant getting into King Snake's range. Cautiously, he eased the door open and took a careful step backwards.

"Bobbo!" King Snake roared. "Stop the intruder!"

Nightwing ran, hoping that his diminished eyesight would stand him in good stead.

Feet pounded behind him. Something small flew past him. Then came a sharp stabbing sensation at the back of his neck. Nightwing slapped a hand to the spot and pulled away a slender dart. Still running, he examined it with his gloved fingers, as his horror mounted. Now why did he NOT think that he'd just been injected with a flu vaccine? As he rounded a corner and opened a door, he found himself in a stairwell. Quickly he examined his costume and noted a similar dart embedded in one of the pouches of his utility belt. He examined it carefully. It seemed to be intact. That was something… hopefully, it would be enough. Or else he was going to be in real trouble.

* * *

Something was off. Nightwing had told her that the lab was probably off-site. It would be unlikely to be within Dorance Tower for the simple reason that you could always tell a heroin-processing lab by its odor of vinegar. At best, he'd said, somewhere in the building, they might find some lead to point them toward the actual lab. Yet, the Ghost Dragon punk had directed her toward these doors. Choi sniffed the air. She caught a faint whiff of disinfectant, but nothing more. Curious, she swung open the double doors. She blinked. She _was_ standing in a laboratory, but instead of drugs, there were computers. And instead of armed guards, there were men and women in lab coats. What was this place?

Heads turned, startled, at the sound.

"Who are you?" One man asked.

Choi thought quickly. "One of Dorance's boys told me to come down here," she snarled "What the f-I mean…" she curbed her speech with some effort. "What is this?"

A blond woman with an air of authority walked forward. "I don't believe it," she said smiling. "I just put in a request for additional security this afternoon. This response is most…" she eyed Grace appreciatively, "impressive."

She extended her hand. Choi hesitated a moment before she took it. "I'm Doctor Linda Fiitawa," she stated. "Welcome to Project Venom." She pointed to a computer table. Next to the console, she indicated a stack of diskettes. "We have a clean-desk policy, here. Any research notes or materials not in use must be kept locked up." Fiitawa handed her a key. "If you spot any left unattended, put them in there," she pointed toward a filing cabinet, "and report the matter to me." She gestured towards a large aquarium, where a red, yellow, and black mass of serpents coiled aimlessly about one another. "Those are deadly," she said. "Never pick one up without adequate protection.

* * *

Bobbo knocked on the door of the darkened room. "Lynx?"

A moment later, something crashed against the oak door. "Go away!"

"Child," the body-servant answered, "Ling. Did you not wish an opportunity to redeem yourself?"

There was no response.

"Grace Choi is in the building."

Bedsprings creaked. Slippered feet slapped a wooden floor. The door opened a crack.

"And, I believe that the youth whom you encountered this afternoon just had a run-in with Sir Edmund."

The door opened wider. "I'm…" her voice was bitter, "not in any condition to fight."

"The pain?" There was the barest hint of sympathy in the lieutenant's voice. "I had hoped the acetaminophens would work."

Ling flung the door open. "Pain is _not_ the issue! How am I to fight him as I am?"

Bobbo held up a blowgun. "My dear Lynx," he said, "Sir Edmund did teach you blind-fighting, after all. And I _have_ taken steps to equalize matters. You should hurry, though. Before the gentleman in question is neutralized by other means."

The girl took a step forward eagerly. "What did you-"

"Does it matter?"

* * *

Nightwing leaned against a wall, trying to steady himself. He wasn't sure what had been on the dart, but from the way the wound was smarting, and from the swelling at the back of his neck, it couldn't have been anything good. His heart was pounding, but he had no way of knowing whether it was from the… _just call it a toxin, for crying out loud! What else would it be?_ He didn't know whether his increased heart rate was caused by the toxin, by adrenaline, or by a simple dose of good old-fashioned fear. That was the worst of it. He'd been temporarily blinded, although he seemed to be pretty much over that by now. He had just evaded an attacker, run down a hallway, gotten shot with a dart-under the circumstances, panting for breath and feeling your heart pound were perfectly normal physical responses-and they were also textbook examples of the initial symptoms of at least a half-dozen forms of poisoning. His mind was racing as fast as his pulse as he fumbled for the epi-pen. Pulling it out of his belt, he froze.

_An epi-pen helps with respiratory distress_ , he remembered, _but it also increases tachycardia. Which means that if it's the poison making my heart pound like this, the 'pen is going to make things worse._ He drew a deep, calming breath.

Bruce, he was sure, wouldn't panic in a situation like this. Batman would calmly, cold-bloodedly assess the situation, determine the best course of action, and act accordingly.

Nightwing inhaled again. The air flowed easily into his lungs. He held his breath for a moment, and then released it. He thought. _Most poisoned darts kill or incapacitate quickly. Usually their effects occur in seconds, or at most, minutes-two to three minutes. It's already been at least ten._ So. Perhaps whatever the dart had been coated with had been tampered with-altered in some way, to extend the time for the poison to take effect. Apart from the pain and swelling, he was experiencing no other symptoms-for the moment-but that could change. He examined the second dart, which had lodged harmlessly in the costume. It was coated with something, all right, but he didn't have the equipment on him to analyse it. He gnashed his teeth. In all likelihood, the antidote he needed was right there in the suit, but if he didn't know what the toxin was, then he didn't know what the antidote was either. Carefully, he scraped the residue into a specimen bottle, wiped the dart clean, and slipped it into one of his belt pouches. He didn't have anything handy to cover the tip, so he made sure that the other objects in the pouch were between the dart and the side of the pouch closest to his body. The toxin vial went into another pouch. He inhaled deeply again, then let the air out slowly.

Nightwing considered. If he was able to control his breathing, he didn't need the 'pen. What he needed to do was find Grace-he extracted a small hand-held electronic device from his belt and activated the homing signal in the tracker that he had slipped on his new partner earlier that evening-and get out of the building. He was going to have to move quickly and cautiously-but not too quickly-higher activity could hasten the spread of the poison. Normally, the smartest thing to do would be to stay still and wait for help to arrive. Of course, the first person to arrive on the scene would likely be the one responsible for his current condition. It occurred to him that the poison might well have its uses as an interrogation tool-inject the prisoner and promise him the antidote… if he gave up his information. _And if there IS an antidote._

He shook his head. Bruce was supposed to be the negative one, not him. Well, if staying put meant waiting to be captured, then the smartest thing to do in this case _was_ to keep moving. Choi was in the sub-basement, according to the readout. And most buildings had control grids that would indicate when an elevator was in use. Nightwing leaned over the banister, looking at the endless flights of stairs spiralling beneath him. _This was going to be SO much fun,_ he thought as he anchored his monofilament line to the banister and swung himself over. _He could just tell_.

* * *

Grace Choi stationed herself near the door and tried to look like she belonged there. It wasn't hard. The doctor… scientist? Whatever. She seemed to accept her at face value. That was strange. Most security guards she knew wore uniforms. She looked down at her bare-midriff T-shirt and low-cut blue jeans. Then again, most legitimate operations didn't have teenaged gangs patrolling the corridors. Her eyes narrowed. She hadn't seen the inside of a schoolroom since fifth grade… but she was no idiot. This might not be the heroin-processing lab that she'd expected to find, but something about the place stank to high heaven. Unlike heroin, however, the odor had more in common with a pigsty than with vinegar…

* * *

Something was wrong. Dick knew it as he dashed down endless painted-brick hallways, boots falling heavily on cement floors. It wasn't the painful spot at the back of his neck, which his costume chafed mercilessly. He was suppressing that. And so far, he didn't _think_ he was experiencing any further symptoms.

Nobody was chasing him. That was it. He'd just fought and humiliated King Snake, gotten shot by 'Bobbo', barely managed to make it to the stairwell… and then… nothing. He'd made it down to the sub-basement completely unmolested.

_Was he so sure that was poison in his system? What if it was some sort of plague bacteria? What if he was carrying some infectious disease and they all had orders to steer clear of him?_ Reality reasserted itself. Anything that deadly wouldn't be administered via blowgun dart. Unless there was a ready antidote, that method of infection was just too risky for the shooter. Nightwing willed his doubts to subside. He couldn't go borrowing more trouble than he already had weighing him down.

Nightwing looked at the tracker again. Choi should be right around the next corner. Which meant, of course, that just about now…

…A slender form in a flowing green cloak stepped forward. The hood of the cloak was pulled up, completely obscuring the upper portion of the wearer's face.

"Going somewhere?" A familiar voice asked.

Resigned, Nightwing shifted to a fighting stance. _It figured._

* * *

In a lavish one-bedroom apartment in downtown Metropolis, a phone rang. The apartment's occupant stifled a sigh of frustration. His job, _both_ his jobs, forced him to keep odd hours at times, and after spending thirty-one of those hours awake, he had been about to turn in.

"Hello," he said, keeping the irritation out of his voice. Whoever was on the other end didn't know how tired he was and didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of a temper outburst. Not even if it was a telemarketer.

"He's in Metropolis," a voice grated without preamble. "Find him."

"Wha-?" He banished his sleepiness. "Bruce is that y-"

"Find him, damn it!" The line went dead.

Clark Kent sighed. One day, he was going to shed the Midwestern farmboy manners and give Bruce Wayne a piece of his mind. One day.

This probably wasn't a job for Superman, but he reached for a clean costume, just in case. If Bruce was demanding his help… _He must be worried sick about that boy_ , he realized as he rummaged through his dresser for civilian attire.

* * *

At first, Nightwing thought that the fight might not go on for too long. Ling's lean, whip-like form flowed easily through the feints and lunges of an advanced training kata, and yet her movements seemed hesitant, as though she wasn't completely sure where to direct her blows.

He sank into a crouch, and then launched himself at her in a flying leap. Ling seemed to find her centre, then. She stepped out of his trajectory and countered with a painful kick to the kidney. Nightwing managed to recover enough to land on his feet. Instantly he sprang forward.

She caught hold of his arm, half-turned, and drew him smoothly over her hip. As his feet left the ground, he caught hold of her arm and pulled her down with him. The two grappled, each straining for an advantage.

The girl was faster, but Nightwing knew more tricks. He was stronger, but she knew how to use that strength against him. His current condition was a liability, but his opponent's own moves were also off.

As the fight progressed, however, Ling seemed to shrug off whatever had been hindering her. Despite his struggles, she slowly gained the upper hand. He was on his stomach, trying to throw her weight off his back as she straddled him, pinning him to the floor…

All at once the girl cried out. The pressure on his back eased. Without hesitation, he pushed her off. The girl scuttled away, no longer interested in him. She looked at her leg, and her hands began to tremble.

Nightwing saw it. There was a deep puncture wound in his opponent's calf. The pointed end of the dart he'd taken protruded from his belt pouch. In the scuffle, it must have worked its way through the fabric and dug into her leg.

"No," he heard her gasp.

Nightwing tried to catch his breath. The girl lurched to her feet and all but flew into the room behind her.

That room. Grace was in there. He rose to his feet and tried to take a deep breath. His heart was pounding more than it should have been from that level of exertion. But if the girl thought she'd been stuck with a-

Maybe she'd just wanted to get away from him, Nightwing thought. Or maybe…

It was almost a full three minutes before he felt capable of walking without staggering. He moved cautiously to the door and pulled it open.

* * *

Lynx entered the lab at a run. "I just took a dart," she barked. "Antidote. Now!" She gasped as Choi stole up behind her and enveloped her in a bear hug.

Doctor Fiitawa glanced up. "You can put her down, Grace," she said quietly. "Lynx is one of Sir Edmund's people." She frowned. "One of Sir Edmund's careless people. We have other uses for that serum." She strode irritably toward a storage room " _Important_ uses." She opened the door and stepped inside, emerging a moment later with a syringe. "It is a commodity invaluable to what we are attempting to create. And it is most difficult to procure."

Ling took a good look at her attacker. "You!" she shouted. "That's an intruder, you fool!" She snapped at the doctor. She lunged at Fiitawa, but Choi had a firm hold on Lynx's cloak. As Lynx swivelled her head to face her captor, the hood dropped away. The girl shrieked and tried to lower her face, but it was too late.

After a moment of stunned silence, Grace threw back her head and started to laugh.

"I don't believe it!" She gasped. "I mean I know, over time, dogs come to resemble their masters, but I," she pointed derisively to Lynx's eye-patch, "never thought you'd take things this far!"

"Stop laughing at me!" Lynx shrieked, breaking free. Her hand flew self-consciously to the patch. "Stop laughing!" Antidote forgotten, she leaped up, hands extended toward Choi's throat. " _Say baht-poh!_ " she screeched.

Choi seized her wrists, then doubled over as Lynx slammed both feet into the large woman's stomach."

There was no telling how far things might have gone had a startled cry from Fiitawa not frozen the two women in place. Both turned to look at the doctor.

She was gaping slack-jawed at her hand, which no longer held the syringe. Slowly, her eyes slid over to where a black-and-blue (in more than one sense of the phrase) vigilante stood, grasping a sort of hybrid throwing knife and boomerang. He jerked his sleeve free of his gauntlet, rolled it up, pulled the syringe loose from the object and quickly injected the serum into his arm.

"Thanks, Doc," Nightwing grinned. "I needed that."

Fiitawa seemed to awaken to the situation. "Intruders!" She snapped. "Lockdown all systems! Destroy what notes you can. Lynx! If you're an enforcer, then enforce!

Ling broke free of Choi's hold. "Give me the serum, _chun zi_ , and I'll do what you ask."

Choi snorted. "There's that obedience training paying off again, Fifi."

Lynx vacillated, torn between her need for the serum and her urge to throttle Grace.

"Choi!" Nightwing called, "don't let them trash everything!"

That was when all the power in the room cut out. Instantly Nightwing realized: the lab was on its own power grid, and someone had turned off the electricity at its source. A moment later the lights came back on. The computer terminals remained dark.

Doctor Fiitawa cleared her throat. "You two are trespassing," she stated.

Nightwing raised an eyebrow. His gaze fell on the snake terrarium. "You're conducting clandestine research on the uses of coral snake venom."

"Where's your proof?" Fiitawa smirked.

_It's in your reaction, Lady. Now if I can find something that'll stand up in court…_ "I'd say working in a lab in a building owned by one of the leaders of the Metropolis underworld might qualify as suspicious."

The doctor raised a hand to her mouth in mock dismay. "You mean," she gasped, "Sir Edmund isn't just a humble businessman? Why ever did he not volunteer the information?" Her tone hardened. "You have no evidence. You have no warrant. Come back when you do or not at all. Now leave before I summon the police."

Nightwing loomed over the doctor. She stood her ground and looked calmly up at him.

He seethed inwardly. She was right on all counts. He had no proof that she was doing anything illegal. He and Grace _were_ trespassing. And, unfortunately, one of the common side effects of the antivenin was extreme fatigue and he could only fight it off for so long. He took a step closer and was gratified when Fiitawa backed up.

"I'd find another line of work," he said softly. "Because one day, I _will_ have the proof I need. And then," he added as he lobbed an incendiary at the ceiling, knowing that the intense heat would activate the sprinkler system, "I won't be anywhere near as polite as I'm being right now."

He eyed the computers, which were quickly becoming waterlogged. "Let's go, Choi. Oh… Ling?"

Her one eye turned balefully toward him.

"That dart was clean. You're not infected. C'mon Grace."

* * *

Once outside, Choi turned to him. "You just freaking let them get the bleep away with it!"

"We had no evidence."

Choi grinned. "That's what you think." She held up a small box of computer disks.

Nightwing stared. "How did you?"

"Doc told me to lock up anything left out for safekeeping. I thought you'd probably keep it even safer. Freaking lab's an accident waiting to happen, you know. Bleeping ninja-girls bursting in, frelling sprinklers going on, blasted 'puters going off. They're better off with you."

Nightwing smiled. "You did good, Choi," he whispered.

"You okay?"

"Fine. Antivenin just needs time to work."

"Fewmets." She draped his arm over her shoulder. "You ought to be in a hospital."

"Can't," Nightwing shook his head. "Not…" he indicated his costume "like this."

"Freaking figures." Choi sighed. "OK. Where _do_ I take you, then?"

* * *

It was an aching bleary-eyed Dick Grayson who found one of the Daily Planet's star reporters knocking on his hotel room door several hours later. "Mr. Kent," he said in disbelief. He motioned the journalist inside. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I'm an investigative reporter, Dick." He shook his head, frowning as Dick shut the door. "I should have found you under observation in a hospital, going by the inert coral snake venom in your system. You can suffer side effects for up to 24 days, did you know that?"

Dick cocked an eyebrow. "Your X-ray vision is _that_ good?"

Clark looked at the floor with some embarrassment. "No. X-ray vision combined with microscopic vision combined with photographic memory for how different substances appear in the bloodstream… those three elements together are that good." He glanced up again. "They achieve better results as a team, I guess," he finished lamely. "That tends to happen in other areas as well."

_Oooh! Mr. Subtlety in the flesh._ "Which is why you're going to take on a kid sidekick?" Dick countered.

"No," Clark said, flustered, "What I meant was..." He changed the subject. "There's a man in Gotham who's been extremely… concerned… over your whereabouts."

Dick snorted.

"It's true."

"Right. Then where the hell was he, last semester, each time I called the manor? When I suddenly started running up the credit cards he'd added me on to, _hoping_ he'd get in touch with me to ask me what I was spending on? If he can make the time every year to lay two roses in Crime Alley at 10:43 p.m. on _that_ night, why couldn't he make the time to just send an email? 'Hi Dick. Hope you're fine. Bruce. Is that really—damn it!'" He turned away with an exasperated sigh. "I'm sorry, Clark. Not your worry. Forget it. I'm sure you didn't come here because you thought Bruce might be worried about me-"

Clark cleared his throat. "Actually… I came because I _know_ Bruce _is_ worried about you. Apparently he's been ruing the day that he taught you how to obliterate any trace of your whereabouts."

Dick blinked. Clark continued.

"I got a call last night, from him, ordering me to find you."

"You've done that. Now what?" He raised an eyebrow. "Ordering?"

"As long as you called, he knew where you were and that you were alright. As long as he knew that, he didn't feel like he had to call you back. Think about it."

Dick did. He must have been hurt worse than he thought last night. Clark actually seemed to be talking sense. "You know, things would be a lot simpler if he didn't go out of his way to complicate them."

"So you'll call him?"

Dick shook his head. "I… it's…" he grimaced. "Complicated."

"Try me."

Dick's eyebrows furrowed. "When he's around, I act like a kid. When he isn't…" he sighed. "When he isn't, I act like _him_. At least, when I'm with the Titans."

"Well," Superman ventured, "you always were mature for your years. I know some of your teammates. They tend to act their ages a bit more." He considered. "That's not always a bad thing."

"It is if it costs lives." He spread his hands. "I don't know who I am anymore, Clark. I'm not that cute little twelve-year-old who thought Bruce could do no wrong and wanted to be Batman when he grew up. And if I go back to Gotham now, Bruce is still going to see me as that same wide-eyed kid. And then something will happen, and he and I will be at each others throats inside of a week. And if I go back to the Titans… same thing in reverse. I'll 'bat-out' on them and the next thing you know…", he sighed. "Teams come together for a common purpose. I'd rather the purpose wasn't to…"

"Attack you?" Clark sighed. "That still doesn't explain why you won't call Bruce."

"I just told you. I don't want to fight with him."

"And the reason you think he doesn't call you is—"

Dick's jaw dropped.

"He doesn't have a lot of people in his life. If you felt that… stifled last year, maybe he's afraid—"

"Yeah, right."

"Afraid of pushing you away altogether!"

"So he ignores me instead?"

"It kept you calling, didn't it?"

Dick dropped heavily to the desk chair. Clark sat on the corner of the bed. "Why does he always have to complicate things?" He demanded, not really expecting an answer. _And why was Clark still making sense?_

He sighed. "Look. Tell him you found me and I'm fine. I ran into a little trouble but…" he grinned. "Tell him his training paid off. He'll like that."

Clark opened his mouth to protest.

Dick held up a hand. "I'm not trying to back out or…or get you to do my dirty work. I'm just," he grimaced. "Is it okay to know you're being stupid and pigheaded sometimes, and decide that you want to keep right on being stupid and pigheaded?"

"You're how old?"

"Almost nineteen."

"Absolutely."

That prompted a chuckle. "Last night, in addition to getting myself poisoned, I… came into possession of some password-protected computer files. Considering where I found them, I _think_ whatever's on them might be important. And if I talk to Bruce, I might mention it, and he might want to help, and he'll end up taking over. And I should be happy because it doesn't matter who solves it—"

Clark shook his head. "Let me guess. He told you that? Ask him about the time Ralph figured out how the Dobson brothers were smuggling the masterpieces out of the Van Dyke Gallery before he did, and watch his reaction." He grinned at Dick's expression. His tone turned serious.

"Password-protected files," he repeated.

Dick nodded.

"Funny thing about being an investigative reporter," Clark mused. "You make all sorts of interesting contacts. Celebrities, small-time numbers-runners… a hacker or two."

Dick blinked at him. "If you're offering to…"

Clark shook his head. "It's your case. I'm just going to put in a good word for you with a friend of mine. Of course," his expression turned serious, "one thing you do find out in the real world is that there's no such thing as a free lunch. If I'm going to set you up with this person, I'd like something in return."

"Fine," Dick sighed. "I'll call him. Happy?"

"That's great," Clark said. "Really. But, you know, I was," he looked away, reddening slightly, "actually hoping for an exclusive story once you crack this case."


	5. Little Acorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finding out what King Snake's people were working on, Nightwing strikes out for Las Vegas. The fact that a former teammate is now working there is just an added bonus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Although the 'Robbie Malone' alter ego did originally appear in cannon, this version traces its pedigree directly to the fan fiction of Charlene Edwards. He appears with her permission.
> 
> A/N Special thanks to my betas: Char, Debbie, and Kalin!
> 
> A/N: "Buckwheat" refers to a particularly gruesome death taking a minimum of fifteen minutes to complete. The victim is kept fully conscious during the ordeal.

_Oaks from little acorns grow_

_Tall plants come from tiny seeds you sow_

_Low hills turn into mountains, don't you realize_

_Big hurts came from little white lies_

_Sonny James, "Big Hurts Came from Little White Lies"_

  
_  
_ ****Chapter 5: Little Acorns** **   


 

Dick wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. The clichéd image of a computer hacker, the one that Hollywood tended to serve up to the masses, was that of the social misfit, overly sloppy or painfully well-groomed, with coke-bottle glasses, a bad case of acne, and an Arnold Horshack laugh. Of course, that image was ludicrous. Off the top of his head, Dick could name several acquaintances-and two former partners-who were about as far removed from that stereotype as one could possibly get. Much like the dark-skinned man,with the Jamaican lilt, whose tapered fingers sped elegantly across the keyboard.

Doctor Arthur Barton finally looked up from the console with a serious expression. "Where'd you get these disks, mon?" the S.T.A.R. Labs scientist asked.

Dick shook his head sullenly, forcing himself to stay in character. Being undercover didn't necessarily require elaborate disguises. An alteration of clothing style, a different attitude, a change of body kinesics-that was the hardest part of all-and a person became virtually unrecognizable to all save close acquaintances. There was no good reason for Bruce Wayne's ward to be in Metropolis, much less in this building. However, the surly, slouching young man in the grey sweatshirt half tucked into faded low-rise blue jeans, a Cincinnati Reds cap jammed over unruly dark hair, didn't bear more than a passing resemblance to the scion of Gotham's most eligible bachelor. Clark had introduced him as a new intern at the Planet.

Barton snorted. "Another one who won't reveal his sources," he said. "Fine." His accent seemed to intensify as he leaned forward. "Mr…"

"Malone," The name came unhesitatingly to his lips. "Robbie Malone."

"Mr. Malone," Barton continued, "I'm going to give you a wee bit of advice. The material on these disks is either classified or illegal. Maybe both. If I were you, I'd be destroy-"

"Well you ain't," 'Robbie' interrupted. He ignored Clark's frown. "I didn't come here so youse could tell me what to do, see? I came here so youse could tell me what I got." He didn't have the Jersey accent quite right. It sounded like too much of an affectation. _That's what years of Alfred's elocution do to a person._ He mulled that over. _Can the excuses, **Robbie**. Bruce never has that problem playing 'Matches'._ Acting like a journalism student intern who thought he was Heaven's gift to newspaper writing and didn't have to waste time trying to be nice to people seemed to come easily enough for him, though.

Barton didn't seem to notice the accent. "What you've _got_ , Mr. Malone," he said, "looks very similar to certain _the_ oretical data that our geneticists _here_ at S.T.A.R be looking in _to_. What's dis _tur_ bing is that whomever you _got_ this from, Mr. Malone, they seem to have gone far _be_ yond the theoretical."

Clark leaned forward. "Artie?" The man's pulse was a good fifteen beats per minute faster than it had been when he'd sat down. "What's on the disks?"

The programmer's eyes narrowed. "You're sure about him, Mr. Kent?"

At Kent's nod, Barton drew a deep breath. "Jagdeo," he called, "come over here a moment, mon?"

Another scientist working in the outer room turned in answer to the computer technician's summons.

Barton immediately arose from his terminal and gestured to the newcomer to sit down. "Is this what it looks like, Garcia?"

Jagdeo's eyes widened. "How… where did you…" he looked at Clark and Dick in some confusion. "If they're that far along in the testing," he said slowly.

"That's what I thought," Barton said grimly. To the other two men, he explained, "This is Garcia Jagdeo. He's one of our top experts in genetic engineering. Got his degree from the University of Santa Prisca. Garcia was lecturing over here in the States when Slaycroft took over. Our gain." He nodded to his colleague. "Tell them what-all you were working on, back then."

Jagdeo laced his fingers together loosely, and then pulled them apart. "I was involved with a project similar to this before I came to this country. It looks like somebody took the theoretical research… and is trying to find a practical application."

"Theoretical," Clark repeated.

The genetic engineer's face was ashen. "If this is accurate," he stated, "then somebody is extremely close to creating a… an enhanced human being." At Dick's frown, he continued. "A decade ago, maybe longer… we would have said… a 'super soldier'."

* * *

Sir Edmund Dorance could not abide the odour of tobacco. As a soldier and as an athlete, he preferred to keep noxious substances as far away from him as possible. He had snapped the neck of one of his lieutenants for lighting up in his presence once. He clenched his teeth as the short, heavy-set man chain-smoked his second cigarette.

"Fiitawa's asked us to find her better working conditions, Ned," Peel said between puffs. "She doesn't feel safe. Now, I was in Gerard's office when she came in, and after she finished talking, well, Senator Gerard wasn't too happy. You see, Ned, Linda needed a nice, quiet, _safe_ place for her research. And six months ago, when you came forward with Dorance Tower, we were happy. She was happy. And one might think that the fringe benefits from her project might have made _you_ happy, too."

Dorance couldn't help but recoil as Peel waved the cigarette directly under his nose for emphasis. This was a very bad sign. King Snake did not frighten easily. He assessed, he analysed, and once decided on a course of action, he pursued it ruthlessly.

For Dorance, expedience was everything. There was no room for affection or sentimentality in his life. His world was organized into three sections: that which provided a benefit, that which posed a threat, and that which did neither. The first category, he tolerated. The last, he ignored. As for the second, he either crushed it as quickly as possible, or, when this was not feasible, bided his time for the appropriate moment. A threat, though, was not a cause for alarm; it was an obstacle to surmount-preferably with no help from others. Or, as Lord Palmerston might have phrased it, Dorance had no permanent allies, only permanent interests.

Adam Peel's polished Harvard accent cut into Dorance's musings. "Doctor Fiitawa has appealed to us to find her a better, more secure, location. One with tougher security than a pack of adolescent delinquents running in the hallways."

"Accidents do happen," Dorance stated, carefully gauging the amount of concern to inject into his voice. Too much would depict weakness. Too little, and he would appear uncaring.

"Yes," Peel agreed dryly. "They do. Particularly when you ignore legitimate requests for increased security."

"These things take time!" Dorance protested. "There is a screening process, training…"

"How many people did you interview?" Peel demanded. "And how much training does it take to not let people come in if they have no business being there? Linda told the senator that the meta chippie picked up the basics in 5 minutes-you telling me she's some kind of rocket scientist?"

Dorance was not going to panic. This wasn't going at all well, but he had to retain his composure. "Clearly," he said slowly, "there will need to be some changes made. I'll have my retainer onsite at all times until-"

Peel lit another cigarette, flicking the ashes onto the mahogany partner's desk. Dorance held his tongue, but he gripped the top edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles whitened.

"That won't be necessary, Neddie," Peel interrupted. "We're relocating Dr. Linda Fiitawa to another facility."

_Neddie_. Dorance winced. Someone had tried calling him by that moniker during his early days in Metropolis. That man had survived, but his medical bills had cost more than the insurance company had been willing to cover. It had been the last time anybody had called him 'Neddie', or 'Ed', or any other diminutive name.

"You don't consider that action to be somewhat hasty?" He asked.

Peel leaned forward. "Let me give you some friendly advice, Ed," he stated. "When a place you thought was safe suddenly turns dangerous, and when the people you thought would back you…don't… when more and more, a person realizes that he's basically a stranger and doesn't exactly belong where he is, why then, the only sensible thing to do," he stubbed out his cigarette on the desk and rose to his feet, "is to get out while you can."

He turned without preamble and strode toward the elevator. "Be sensible, Ed," he stated as the doors parted. Then he was gone.

Dorance slumped in his chair. Peel's friendly 'advice' was not something that he could dismiss lightly. He could fight a challenger to his position in the Metropolis underworld… but if his government contacts also decided that backing him was no longer in their best interest, then it was time to cut his losses.

"Bobbo," he called.

Instantly, his aide was at his side.

"You heard."

"Of course, Sir Edmund."

King Snake permitted himself a small smile. Bobbo had learned early how much his employer valued another set of ears.

"Make inquiries," Dorance commanded. "Find out how many of our friends in Washington would support us against Lloyd Gerard were matters to come to that. See what our associates on the street are muttering about. And Bobbo, it wouldn't hurt to investigate a new site for our operations, should a change of scene be warranted. I should like you to locate a large urban centre, with a market for our product. If, indeed, we do need to carve out a fresh niche for ourselves, I would prefer minimal competition."

"Yes, Sir Edmund." He turned to withdraw, but Dorance called after him.

"One more thing, Bobbo. Find out what you can about the intruders from last night. There shall be a reckoning, and I, for one, should like to be prepared for it.

"Of course, Sir Edmund."

* * *

Clark frowned. "When you use that term," he said, "'super soldier', it conjures up too many images of 60s B-movies. Could you get a little more specific?" He shot Dick a hard look, silently ordering him to keep his mouth shut and let him do the talking. Fine with Dick. Clark knew all the right questions to ask, while Dick was still trying to remember his high school biology.

Jagdeo nodded. "The information contained here suggests that these researchers are attempting to create an enhanced human being. The subject would enjoy increased strength, endurance, and resilience. He, or she for that matter, would be impervious to pain, illness…they're trying to find a way to incorporate a healing factor, or at least faster recuperation."

Dick leaned forward. "Why would they be working with snake venom?" He asked, indicating a labelled diagram on the screen.

"They weren't," Jagdeo said slowly. "They were working with the _antivenin_ , in an attempt to improve the immune system and make it naturally resistant to poisons. In their experiments, they also managed to develop a hardier strain of the coral snake toxin. Its symptoms take longer to develop and move more slowly through the bloodstream, but this new variety is also far, far deadlier than the original. They've also developed an antidote for it, and that's a very good thing, because the new version is too strong for the standard antivenin.

"No fooling," Dick let out a low whistle. Clark was frowning at him, making it all the harder for him to stay in character. Robbie Malone should not be feeling relief that he _hadn't_ known which injection to take out of his snakebite kit last night. Dick Grayson, however, could offer up a silent prayer of thanks.

"What concerns me," Jagdeo said, "is who's bankrolling this. The US government scrapped the idea after the project head, Dr. Ram Prasad Divakaruni raised ethical objections. It's on record that he never intended his theoretical work to be put into practice."

"Then who could…" Dick wondered.

Barton cleared his throat. "Garcia, this name mean something to you?" He indicated a text file, apparently a scientific abstract. "Linda Fiitawa?"

Jagdeo scowled. "Now that, Arturo," he didn't seem to realize that he'd just pronounced the Spanish version of Barton's first name, "is a name that should not be attached to any ethical research department. But," he added, "it helps us to make more sense of the matter." He cracked his knuckles noisily.

"Fiitawa studied under Divakaruni, and she was associated with the super-soldier project. Divakaruni and the university filed charges against her after it came out that she was performing unauthorized genetic experiments on human subjects. Fiitawa lost her license and almost went to prison for that."

"I thought you said they never developed a practical-"

"They didn't," Jagdeo interrupted Dick's comment. "But she was attached to other research projects before joining this one. Her methodology came to light shortly before Divakaruni dropped his bombshell."

Dick considered that. "Let's say I wanted to talk to this doctor. Where would I find him?"

Barton punched a few keys. "He's a professor at Loma Linda University. That would be out in Eastern California."

Dick's face fell. That was clear across the continent. He couldn't… _wait just a minute! Why couldn't he?_ _He wasn't doing anything else right now. But…California?_ "'F I wanted ta get ta Loma Linda," he demanded, "what's the most direct route from here?"

"You don't have a computer of your own somewhere, Malone?" Barton asked. At Dick's headshake, the heavyset man let out a long-suffering sigh. "Top of the line piece of equipment," he mourned, "and we're using it to Google travel directions. Okay. You're gonna start here in Metropolis and go east on the Interstate to…"

Dick was only half-listening. Barton would give him a printout later, he was sure. He wasn't used to this. Usually, once a lead or suspect was outside Gotham City limits, Batman would call off pursuit. There were always plenty more mooks on the street. And he couldn't recall a time when Bruce had actually packed everything up and journeyed to meet with a contact. He normally remote-hacked their computers, or, if a plausible scenario suggested itself, found a way for Wayne Enterprises to invite the contact into Gotham. Running clear across the country was going to be a new exp-

"Then, from Las Vegas, you're gonna go…"

"Vegas?" Dick perked up. "How far is Loma Linda from there?"

"About 2 hours, mon. Not too much farther."

_Babs._ That settled it. He could stop over in Vegas and drop in on Barbara Gordon, do some catching up. And then…

_California, here I come…_

* * *

" _I don't want to talk about it."_

" _I don't recall asking whether you did. Report."_

" _I messed up, okay? I blew it! Is that what you wanted to hear, Bruce? I goofed, they got away, the munitions shipment is headed to South America anyway, and it's **my** fault, end of story."_

_Silence_

_Moments pass before I look up. He's just standing there; about as mobile as that stupid tyrannosaurus I thought was so cool the first time I saw it in the cave. His cowl's still on, which is surprising. Normally he pulls it off the minute he gets out of the Batmobile._

" _What?"_

_Silence again. Then, without a word, he reaches over to the printer tray and hands me an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven and a pen._

" _What's this for?"_

_He turns around and starts to tug at the cowl. For some reason, he never faces me when he unmasks. It makes no sense, but there it is. "I want you," he says, "to write down everything that went wrong tonight, every detail, no matter how slight, for which you were personally responsible." He tosses the cowl into the canvas laundry bag Alfred leaves down here, and takes one of the clean folded towels from the shelf above. "I'll review it while you take your shower."_

_He comes back from taking his about a half hour later. I've got three quarters of the second side of the page written on and I'm still going strong. I missed one of the scouts that the smugglers had posted. I didn't notify Batman of my position. I didn't notice how easily I was trouncing the henchmooks and I gave chase without considering that they were leading me into a trap. I mistook an unmarked police cruiser for a getaway car and wasted about five minutes keeping it under surveillance. I jumped about three seconds too early, let the gunfire distract me so I stumbled my dismount from the ledge… seeing line after line of my smudged confession almost makes me want to cry. Scratch that. I do want to cry, but I think tonight's already been embarrassing enough._

_Bruce reaches over and plucks the pen from my hand. "Go on," he says, gently._

_I wish he'd just yell. I hate it when he gets all quiet like this. I grab my towel, almost bumping into him as he dumps his costume into the laundry bag and mumble an apology as I head off in the direction from which he just came._

_When I come back, he's sitting at the computer. A negligent wave of the hand draws my attention to the litany of stupidity I was working on, earlier. I guess he wants me to finish it, now that the hot water's done its job and calmed me down a bit. I blink. Almost every entry I wrote down now has a bold red line bisecting the words. In the white space I've left for a margin, I see comments like: 'reasonable hypothesis'… 'hindsight'… and my eyes widen. He did NOT actually print in block letters "Don't be silly," and underline it twice! It's next to where I'd written that bit about how I should've been in the rafters above Batman in case he needed a hand (which he did), instead of clear on the other side of the building watching the cop car. Oh, I've got to frame this, no wait… I bet he just wrote that because he thinks now I'll hang on to this paper. I was planning on burning it. I look up._

" _What do you mean, 'don't be silly'?"_

_He keeps his eyes on the monitor screen. "Suppose it HAD been a getaway car."_

" _But it wasn't."_

" _I KNOW it wasn't. What if it had been? Suppose their plan had been to divide their force, keep both of us occupied at the front of the building, while they escaped through the rear? You would have been in the perfect position to block them."_

_I grimace. "Instead I watched some officer wolf down a sandwich and a cup of cold coffee."_

" _What kind of sandwich?"_

" _I saw some lettuce sticking out," I answer reflexively. "And something yellow squeezed out the other end when he bit into the Kaiser roll. Probably egg-salad._

" _And you knew the coffee was cold because…" he continues._

" _Paper cup. They cool off faster. Besides, he was holding it for a couple of minutes without looking uncomfortable. And he stirred creamer into it. You don't do that for tea."_

_Bruce does this a lot: quizzes me about every detail, no matter how insignificant, making sure that I notice everything. I'm improving, too. I can look at a tray of a hundred objects for two minutes and list seventy-two of them. When we first started, I was lucky to get twenty._

_Huh? I blink. He repeats the question._

" _How could you have known that it was a police cruiser?"_

_Great. There's some trick I should have remembered. Something about the license plates, or something weird about the radio antenna, or something. I don't know anymore. I start to mention the license, hoping that my brain will catch up and fill in the blank. Bruce shakes his head. When I grasp at something else, he holds up a hand._

" _Dick. The car was unmarked, remember? There is no way that you could have known. The question was rhetorical."_

_He turns to face me, now._

" _Some things, in hindsight, could have been handled better. But without knowing then what we do now, it's hard to assess blame." He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "Not that you haven't done an impressive job, of course," he adds._

_I catch myself grinning. You almost have to when Bruce cracks a joke-it happens so rarely._

_He sobers. "Some things you do need to work on. I agree that the gunfire shouldn't have rattled you. Not checking the area behind the door where that last henchman was concealed was a serious error, yes. As far as giving the hostiles time to reload, I'm not sure you had a choice._

" _Do you know why I asked you to draw this list up?"_

_My first guess would have been as a punishment, but now I don't think so. I shrug._

" _I don't want you to dwell on your mistakes, Dick. I don't want you to ignore them, either, mind you, but the fact remains: they happened. They're in the past. Analyse them. Try to determine whether there were any reasonable precautions you could have taken, and if so, resolve to take them the next time. Then chalk it up to experience and move on."_

_If my real dad had given me that advice, I'd probably rush up and hug him about now. Since it's Bruce, I just grin._

_He passes me another blank paper. "It's equally important to understand what you did right," he says. "That way, you'll continue to improve. I expect you to find at least as many items for this new list as you did for the previous one. And," he adds absolutely deadpan, "I expect to have to strike out fewer entries this time. Get busy."_

_He doesn't smile. He doesn't have to. I raise my hand in a mock salute and pick up the pen._

* * *

Dick smiled at the memory as he gathered his belongings together and packed them tightly into the oversized knapsack. A final check of the hotel room revealed that he'd left his shampoo in the shower caddy. He grabbed it and gave the cap an extra twist before jamming it into one of the outer pockets.

Almost automatically, he began to compare his performance on that night, some five years prior, with the way he had handled himself a few hours earlier. The parallels were painfully apparent: both times, he'd gone into the fray sure he knew what he was doing, been proven wrong, rallied, and managed to escape with his life. And, as had happened five years ago, he was thoroughly disgusted with his performance during that exercise.

_Mistakes are for correcting_ , he reminded himself as he reached for a piece of hotel stationary. _Don't dwell on them. Don't ignore them. Identify, assess, correct and continue._ In a steady hand, as he had done so many times in the last five years, Dick began to jot down each obstacle that he had encountered at Dorance tower, how he had surmounted or evaded it, what he could have done differently, and whether he should reasonably have been able to predict the course of events that had actually transpired. Once he finished that list, he would repeat the exercise, taking note of what had worked, and whether its success could best be attributed to luck, skill or planning.

He owed Bruce for that technique. _Not to mention a few other things_ , he reflected. And he had promised Clark to make that phone call. He sighed, squared his shoulders, and picked up the receiver. He'd better just get this over with. When his call to Wayne Enterprises went through to Bruce's voicemail, he stifled a sigh. Whether it was out of relief or frustration, he wasn't quite sure.

* * *

"There's no mistake, Sir," the desk clerk repeated. "Your bill has already been settled."

Realization set in. Dick closed his eyes briefly, torn between gratitude and anger. _I don't always need you to bail me out, Bruce, sheesh!_ He blinked as the clerk slid an envelope across the counter to him.

"A messenger just left this for you, Sir."

Shrugging, Dick opened the envelope and removed a parking lot claim ticket and a brass key ring. A key was threaded onto it. He shook the envelope, and a second slip of paper fluttered into his hand. He read the message on the paper and turned back to the clerk. "Where's 39th and Shuster?" He asked.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Dick stood next to a candy thunder blue Koumori Ninja motorcycle, a dazed grin on his face. An envelope much like the first was taped to the dashboard. There was a thin sheet of notepaper inside: _Think of it as a birthday present. Full details on the enhancements have been downloaded to the onboard computer. I will not interfere further. Do not disable the GPS tracker._ He shook his head disbelievingly. Did Bruce really need to go to such lengths to keep tabs on him? He supposed that it was a giant improvement if Bruce was actually admitting that there _was_ a tracking device on the cycle. He sighed. After all this time, Bruce's behaviour shouldn't surprise… Dick blinked as he read the final word on the page. _Please_.

Slowly, he stretched out a hand to touch the gleaming handlebar. The cold metal felt oddly reassuring in his grip. "Jeez, Bruce," he muttered, "even if I don't actually need to hear it, couldn't you just come out and say it once in awhile?"

He slid the knapsack into the storage compartment, swung himself onto the seat, donned the waiting helmet, and turned the key in the ignition.

Fifteen minutes later, he was on the interstate, on his way to Las Vegas.

* * *

_Two nights later_

Lionel Morton passed a leather satchel across his desk with a resigned expression. In marked contrast to the opulence of the public areas of the Virtuosa Herradura Casino, Morton's office was austere in furnishings and atmosphere. The larger of the two men caught the satchel and opened it. He glanced inside briefly, and then snapped it shut. His companion smiled.

"Where's the rest of it?"

Morton blanched.

"It's all there. Ten per cent, just like Scarapelli wants it. You went over the books, yourself."

The slightly-built man smiled again. "That's right," he agreed. "I did." At his gesture, the other man passed the satchel to his companion, leaned across the desk and seized Morton, hoisting the casino manager up by the front of his shirt. The shorter man continued. "Both sets. Let's get away from the Strip. Too many lights."

The men left, dragging their struggling captive with them to a waiting vehicle.

* * *

Dick Grayson resolved never to enter a strange city under cover of darkness again. At the moment, he was utterly lost. Well, perhaps not utterly. He had a fairly good idea where he was, because he'd spent time here before, in Gotham, in New York, in Star City, and yes, even in Metropolis. He was in 'the bad part of town.' Sometimes it was called Crime Alley, Hell's Kitchen, or Suicide Slum. Sometimes it was a housing project, or a once-affluent neighbourhood gone to seed. Here, in Las Vegas, it seemed to be located between the bright lights of downtown and the brighter lights of the Strip casinos. He could always recognize the bad part of town. The street lamps always seemed just a touch dimmer, feet moved at a more frantic pace, their owners lingering no longer than they had to. Here, even ordinary sounds like a cat's meow or an aluminium can rolling along a sidewalk, echoed in the silence.

Nightwing wasn't worried. This time, he was in costume. This time, he felt prepared. With a helmet over his mask, and a nylon shell jacket on top of the Nightwing suit, his boots and leggings would not elicit a second glance from drivers or pedestrians. And, if trouble did find him, at least he was in the Kevlar with full access to weapons and gadgets.

Out of his rear-view mirror he saw a car, driving too slowly for the area. He'd learned to obey his instincts without hesitation. Nightwing drove the 'cycle around the corner and engaged stealth-mode. The motor died down to a soft hum, the headlights dimmed, and he spun about in a tight U-turn to follow the car some distance behind.

Other eyes observed the pursuit.

* * *

Morton doubled over in pain, hands clasped tightly about his head. A blackjack against his patella dropped him to one knee. Someone kicked him in the ribs, and he felt something snap.

Suddenly, light stabbed through his closed eyelids. His assailants cried out.

"Like the trick?" A new voice demanded. "I learned it from a man in Metropolis."

Morton cupped one hand over his eyes to protect them as he slowly raised his lids. Motorcycle headlights shone a harsh yellow light on the three of them. In a moment, Scarapelli's goons were charging the newcomer.

The figure waited until they had almost reached him, and then he leaped up at a ninety-degree angle, as though fired from a cannon. The bruisers looked about dumbfounded. There was nothing above them but empty air…

Suddenly, the newcomer landed in a handstand on the shoulders of the shorter of the two goons. He kicked out, first with one foot, then the other, connecting each time with the other mook's face. As the large man staggered, the young acrobat dropped to the ground, and delivered a quick chop to the neck of one with the side of his left hand, and a hard blow to the nose of the other with his right. The two fell back gasping.

Morton saw the shorter man reach under his jacket. So did the stranger. A circular throwing knife whistled through the air, slicing deeply into the hireling's hand as it pulled out a small pistol. The man cried out in pain and the gun fell to the ground. That was enough for the larger man. He ran back to the car and jerked the driver's door open. "Nick! Get in!" He shouted.

Nursing his hand, the younger man hastened to obey. Over his shoulder, he called back "Morton! Scarapelli gets his money in forty-eight hours. Every last cent. Or you and yours are buckwheat, you got that? Buckwheat!"

The car sped away.

Nightwing tensed. There was someone else out there, he realized. Three 'someone elses'. But they were keeping their distance, and the man on the ground looked like he might need medical attention. He approached slowly, doing his best not to startle the injured party. "Hey," he whispered. "You alright?"

Morton shook his head. "You just got 'em mad," he replied. "Now, even if I pay Scarapelli…" He closed his eyes. "What am I saying? I can't come up with two hundred G's in forty-eight hours. What the hell am I going to do?"

Nightwing probed the man's torso gently, drawing his hand away when Morton cried out. "You've got at least two broken ribs," he said. "Where's the nearest hospital?"

"No time," Morton insisted. "I gotta get home. Get Claire and the kids outta here before it's too late. If they can't find 'em, maybe they'll just take it out on me, ogodogodogod, what am I gonna do?"

Nightwing identified the sound almost an instant before he recognized the shadow, visible in the beam cast from the motorcycle's headlights. He didn't flinch as an arrow, fletched with green feathers, hissed through the night air to embed itself in the wall next to them. Nonplussed, he removed the business card from the shaft of the arrow and handed it to Morton.

"Green Arrow: On… target?" Morton read in a shaky voice. "What's going on?"

"Funny," the emerald archer replied, his approach flanked by a woman in skin-tight purple and a man in a formfitting body suit, a red "V" contrasting sharply with the inky blackness of the rest of his costume. "We were just wondering the same thing."

* * *

The three newcomers eyed Nightwing with varying degrees of suspicion. Dick realized suddenly that even though Green Arrow and Huntress knew _Robin_ , they probably didn't recognize him in the new suit. Then he saw a faint smirk on the blond bowman's face. _He must have caught the acrobatics_ , Dick thought to himself. He drew a deep breath.

"Speedy sends regards… Sir." He felt his face redden. He never had felt comfortable addressing Bruce's peers informally. "Or at least," he admitted, "if he'd known I was coming, he would have."

Oliver Queen laughed. "I thought that was you, Kid. I have to admit, the suit's an improvement. What happened? You got tired of dressing like a giant bulls-eye after all those years?"

Dick returned the grin. "We all have to grow up sometime. Sir."

"Please," Queen's expression was pained. "If you're such a grownup, you can drop the 'sir'. It's GA. And you're…"

"Nightwing."

"Pleasure."

Huntress gave a start. " _Robin?_ " She asked.

Dick sighed. "Hello, Huntress. It's been awhile. I didn't realize you'd moved-"

"I live here," she informed him curtly, as a groan from the pavement drew their attention back to Morton.

Green Arrow unstrung his bow. "Vigilante," he snapped with a gesture toward the hulking figure, who had thus far remained silent. "Huntress, get him back home, collect his family and make sure they pack only what they need. I'll see what we can come up with."

The other man spoke for the first time. "I'll ensure their safety until your arrangements are made, Arrow. If Scarapelli's people make another attempt, it won't succeed." He sounded very much as though he hoped that they would.

With Huntress' support, Morton managed to rise to his feet. "We're parked not far from here," she stated. Her tone was carefully neutral. "Can you manage?"

He nodded.

"Let's go." Over her shoulder, she called back, "catch up with you later… Nightwing."

After they'd gone, Green Arrow grinned. "You know how to make your presence felt," he laughed.

"Did I make things worse by interfering?"

Queen shook his head. "We'd been tailing them from the casino. If you hadn't stepped in when you did, we would've done something similar. Can't get the police involved," he added in response to an unspoken question. "Those that aren't owned by the mob aren't going to interfere with those that are.

"No, kid," he continued. "The day Morton decided to stiff Scarapelli on his percentage of the casino profits was the day he lost any chance at police protection. We're going to have to get him out of town, somehow." He grinned. "So. What brings you to Vegas?"

Dick shrugged. "I've got business in California. I was passing through and," _how much did GA know?_ "A friend of mine moved here last fall. I thought I'd look her up."

Green Arrow pretended to think about that for a moment. "This…friend," he said. "She wouldn't by any chance have left Gotham around the same time you did, for more or less the same reasons?"

"You know her?" He asked excitedly.

"Sure. I met Barbara a couple of years ago, when…" he caught himself. "Well, it was awhile ago. But she's good at what she does. We work together, these days. She's one of my…" he paused, considering. "One of my team."

"Whoa! Small world." Dick glanced around. "So, where is she?"

Ollie's expression grew serious. "She's fine. Actually," he said, dropping his voice a few decibels, "she took a bit of a pounding last night, but you should see the shape of the other guy." Noting the look on Dick's face, Ollie repeated, "she's fine. We'll go visit her in the morning. The hospital's keeping her overnight for observation, but it's just a precaution. They're planning to release her tomorrow.

"So," he added. "How's Bats doing?"

Dick shrugged. "We haven't spoken since the holidays. I'm here on my own."

There was a speculative gleam in Oliver Queen's eye. "You don't say. Listen," he added. "I've got a spare bedroom if you need a place to crash for the rest of the night."

* * *

"Omigosh!" Barbara exclaimed the next day when Dick walked into her hospital room. "Dick? I can't believe it! What are you _doing_ here?" She saw the bouquet of roses that Dick was holding. "They're beautiful! I…" she hesitated, looking around the hospital room for something to put them in. "If you ask at the nurses' station, they've probably got a vase or something. How long are you here for?"

Dick finally stopped grinning long enough to answer. "A couple of days, I guess. I'm heading out to Loma Linda, but I was in the neighbourhood. How are you feeling?"

Barbara touched her shoulder gingerly, and winced. "Stupid, if you want the truth," she admitted. "I really thought I connected with the guy." She paused. "Well, okay. My foot connected with his solar plexus…"

Dick laughed. "Sounds like true love right there."

"You want to eat those flowers, Buster?" Her expression turned serious.

"I'll say one thing, Dick. This time out? Nobody hung me from a meat-hook and treated me like I was a piñata. That's _never_ happening again."

"I understand," Dick said quickly. "So, Ollie says they're releasing you, today?"

"Yep," Barbara nodded. "They only kept me for observation." Her expression hardened. "So you can report back to Bruce that I'm fine."

"What do you mean by that?" Dick's bewilderment was evident.

Barbara's eyes narrowed. "Bruce didn't send you to check up on me?" At Dick's head-shake, her face took on a rosy tint. "Oh. I thought…" She sighed. "Sorry, Boy Wonder. I asked Alfred to use the cave computer to run some traces for me. A couple of days ago, he turned up here. Batman, I mean." She looked away. "One of Arkham's residents is in the area. I told Bruce he had no jurisdiction here," she smiled at Dick's chuckle, and deftly changed the subject. "So, what's in Loma Linda?"

Dick filled her in quickly. Barbara considered. "I know the ULL campus," she said thoughtfully. "Before I decided on enrolling for courses here, I came up to see what the university looked like. Loma Linda was another prospect, so I checked them out, too. If you need some backup…"

"Sure! It'll be almost like old times."

"Almost," Barbara agreed seriously. "Except that this time, neither of us needs to impress the Bat."

At that moment, the hospital room door opened and a doctor came in. "Ms. Gordon, I've got the results of your tests." He glanced at Dick. "If we could have some privacy?"

"Sure," Dick agreed. "Babs, I'll just go grab a coffee. Catch you soon."

* * *

"So, how did you like your glimpse of the Naked City, last night?"

Dick sputtered on his coffee as he looked up, forcing his eyes to slide up past the woman's long shapely legs, microskirt, and form-fitting top, to meet her own sparkling blue eyes. "Huh?" He managed, after he stopped coughing. "I…b-beg your pardon?"

The woman broke into amused laughter. "That's what they call the area of Vegas where Ollie found you last night. Naked City. You didn't know?"

Dick shook his head, flushing slightly. "You're serious?"

"Not if I can help it," the woman countered. "But I'm not making that bit up." She extended a hand. "Dinah Lance. Black Canary. One of Ollie's Angels."

That earned her a chuckle. He considered. Barbara already knew who he was. So did Ollie. He glanced around the cafeteria. Assured that nobody was within earshot, he clasped her fingers, warmly. "I'm Dick Grayson. But I'd rather you didn't shout it to everyone."

"Because you can't do what you do if _Teen People_ is looking for a cover-shot of America's most eligible frosh, heir to the Wayne-"

"You catch on fast." His tone was flippant, but Dinah noticed that he wasn't smiling this time.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to-"

"Don't worry about it." The grin was back, if a bit subdued. "Let's just change the subject."

Dinah nodded. "I was just coming down here to let you know Barbara's got a clean bill of health. They're releasing her as soon as she fills out some paperwork. If you've finished the coffee, I can take you back up."

"I think I know my way," Dick said. He downed the rapidly cooling liquid in one gulp. "But I don't mind the company. Actually... Dinah," he ventured, "would you happen to know of a good restaurant in these parts? And maybe some place a man might want to take a woman that doesn't involve the casinos?"

Dinah grinned. "Well, let's see. There's the all-night wedding chapel…" She took one look at Dick's expression and burst into laughter.

* * *

"All set to go?" Oliver asked as Barbara emerged from the accounting office clutching her stamped receipts.

"Just about. Listen, if you can spare me for a couple of days, I think I'm going with Dick to California."

Ollie's raised eyebrow earned him a light punch in the arm. "Don't start. It's business. Besides," she continued, "we've worked together before. If there's any kind of trouble, Dick and I've trained together and fought together enough to anticipate the other's moves."

"And of course you want to show off some of what you've been learning from Dinah and Helena."

Barbara punched him again, harder this time. "I do NOT show off," she protested. "Well… maybe a little."

Ollie snickered. "From the way you handled yourself against Skorpio, you've got every reason to want to strut your stuff a little. You fought like a wildcat." His eyes narrowed. "Or a cougar."

"What do you mean?" Barbara demanded.

"Nothing," Ollie said. "Only… well, isn't he a little young for you?"

Barbara gaped at him. "Di-you're talking about me… and Dick? Ollie, we're just friends."

"Does _he_ know that?"

"Yes!" Barbara insisted. "I mean I know he's had a crush on me, but I never did anything to encourage… I mean… it-it's not like when Roy and I were…"

A strangled gasp made the two spin around. Dick and Dinah were standing several paces behind them.

"You just _had_ to steer things in that direction when you knew we were on our way up, didn't you?" Dinah asked coldly. "You're a class act all the way, Mr. Queen."

Dick barely recognized the voice that issued forth from his lips. "Babs? You… and _Roy_?"


	6. Rolling With The Punches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still dealing with the last chapter's revelations, Dick and Barbara must protect a wanted man from a mob hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreaders: Charlene Edwards, Kalin Fields, Debbie Reed.
> 
> Story Consultant: Brian Burchette
> 
> Flashback adapted from Detective Comics #38.
> 
> Robbie Malone created by Charlene Edwards. Used with permission.

_Yeah, they say your soul is growing, but_

_Sometimes I feel like throwing something_

_But oh, that's the way it is_

_You gotta roll with the punches_

_That's the way it goes_

_You gotta bend when the wind blows_

_You live you learn_

_You crash and burn_

_It's hit or miss_

_Annie Roboff, Holly Lamar, "That's the Way"_

  
  


**Rolling with the Punches**

Dick tried to tell himself that it wasn't any of his business. He and Barbara had been team-mates, friends, but never a couple. She was free to date anyone whom she pleased, and she certainly didn't owe him an explanation.

_But she was dating one of my best friends._

Again, he tried to remind himself that it was none of his business. He and Babs were not, and never had been "an item".

_But she said she was too old for me. And Roy is… what? Six months older than I am? Does it make that big a difference?_

"Roy?" He repeated in disbelief.

Barbara cast a frantic glance at Ollie. She saw regret in his eyes, but not remorse. Was Dinah right? Had he planned this?

The whiff of chemical solvents assaulted her nostrils. Barbara turned to see a custodian, mop in hand, swabbing the tiled floors. Whether from the cleaner, her inner turmoil, or the crack she'd taken on her head yesterday, she felt the room start to spin. "I," she started, lunging for the exit, "I need some air."

Dick caught up with her in the parking lot. "Barbara," he took hold of her arm. "Babs, please. Wait."

She gently slid away from him. "Dick, no. Not now. I can't…"

"Look," he interrupted. "I just want to know why. It—" he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "All this time, you were saying it was because I was too young, but… Roy…"

Barbara sighed. "It wasn't like that, Dick. It wasn't just… chronological age. I mean, on the one hand you were this super-competent kid who always knew exactly what to do, how to be precisely where Batman needed you to be, when he needed you there, but he kept you on a pretty short leash, you have to admit. Roy… well, he was always more independent. Ollie treated him more like an adult and he…"

"Babs," Dick winced, "please don't tell me you're about to use 'Harper' and 'maturity' in the same sentence."

Barbara was silent. Dick sighed. "How—" he began. "How long ago did you two go out?"

"The summer before last. You remember. I was taking those advanced programming courses at Wrightson College?"

Dick did. Bruce had almost reconsidered his decision to train her when she'd revealed that she was going to be spending eight weeks in Star City. But Babs had registered for the classes months earlier, before she had first donned Kevlar. In the end, Bruce had grudgingly agreed, even going so far as to arrange for her to get some additional training with…

"Bruce put you in touch with Ollie," he remembered. "And Ollie introduced you to Roy? And you two…"

Barbara looked away. "I didn't know a soul in Star City," she said. "Roy understood what I was going through. We hit it off. At first," she hesitated, "he seemed so… he was… spontaneous. I never knew what he was going to say or do next. Bruce always had everything planned out for us. I was used to that. But…"

"So, what?" Dick demanded. "I was too predictable? Roy was dangerous, I was safe?"

"NO!" Barbara nearly shouted as she spun back to face him. "G-d! You were perfect. I took silver in the women's state gymnastics finals two years ago, after practicing night and day, and having one of my major competitors tear a ligament four days before the event. You, on the other hand, could've walked into the arena the day of the competition and taken the gold in the men's without trying. I'd sit in the cave, going over those crime-scene investigation problems Bruce threw at us. My photographic memory let me retain the details, but I had to struggle to fit them all together… while you zipped through it all like… like Kid Flash on a sugar rush."

Dick frowned. "You were jealous? Of me? And _that's_ why you…"

"No!" She hesitated. "Maybe. I don't know. I was starting to think maybe Bruce was right the first time. Maybe I didn't have what it took to be part of your little club. I couldn't tell him. He'd have told me I was right and dropped me from the team. You… at first I thought you'd just run and tell Bruce like a good soldier," she held up a hand to stave off his automatic protest. "I barely knew you then, alright? Of course, now I know you wouldn't have done that. You would've worked with me when Bruce wasn't around. And all it would've shown me was just how far out of my league I really was. Or worse." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't know what would've been harder to take. You cartwheeling rings around me, or me knowing that you were holding back so I wouldn't feel intimidated." She looked away again. "A crush, I could handle. But not you feeling sorry for me."

"I never… could never…" Dick was sputtering. He drew another breath and willed himself to be calm. "Go on," he said.

Barbara flinched at the coldness stealing into his voice, but she obeyed. "Roy," she said slowly, "Roy didn't make me feel like I was constantly competing with him. And," she admitted, "even after I knew that… given that he was working through certain… issues back then, he and I weren't going to have anything lasting, I stayed around because I felt he needed me. Needed me, Dick! Not 'tolerated' me like Bruce did, because he thought I'd go out, with or without his guidance, and he didn't want to have to tell Dad I'd run into something I couldn't handle and gotten myself hurt or… or killed. Not 'wanted' me like… well… you never made any secret about how you felt. And I admit I was flattered. But you didn't need me. Roy did. And I, well, I guess I needed that."

Dick waited for her to finish. "You needed that," he repeated. "But you didn't need _Roy_. Not as such." He realized that he was still holding on to her sleeve and released it. "I don't know who I should feel worse for," he sighed. "You, or Roy. Or me, for not seeing any of this. Of all the stupid…" he broke off angrily and stalked away. He thought he heard her call after him, but the rhythm of his stride never changed.

* * *

"What in the _hell_ were you thinking, Ollie?" Dinah kept her voice low, which made its intensity all the more frightening. "If this is how you treat your friends…"

"I didn't know if Barbara realized that he's not the kid she's been thinking of," Green Arrow said defensively. "To hear her talk about it, this was all some sort of schoolboy crush. Dick's not a schoolboy anymore. I wanted to be sure she knew what she was dealing with."

Dinah's expression hardened. "And this was your business, how, exactly?"

"Pretty Bird, she's a team-mate. And Dick's a friend. You think I want either of them hurt?"

Right then and there, Dinah Laurel Lance forgot that they were inside a hospital. "You did this because you didn't want them HURT?" she shouted. She clamped one hand around Ollie's neck in a vise-like grip and directed him to the floor-to-ceiling window that faced out on the parking lot. Neither could hear the conversation, but the facial expressions and gestures of the two youngsters spoke volumes. As Dick walked away, his expression mingling anger and pain with disgust, Dinah tightened her hold. "It's a GOOD thing you were on the ball," she said. "Otherwise, I might be worried that they'd be UPSET if the facts came out."

She released him with a shove that nearly sent him crashing into the window. "You know something, Ollie?" She asked with deceptive calm. "You can be a real idiot, sometimes. Like when you're breathing."

For the first time, she noticed the two security guards edging closer. "Sorry, guys," she said. "I didn't mean to cause a disturbance."

One of the guards found his voice. "Be that as it may, Ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to leave."

Dinah shrugged. "I think I'm just about finished, here anyway. Have a nice day, fellows."

With feigned nonchalance, she walked up to the double doors. They parted at her approach, and she exited to the parking lot.

Ollie watched her go.

* * *

Senator Gerard looked up as his aide entered.

"I think I have the information you asked for," the young man stated. He placed a dossier on the senator's desk.

Gerard sat motionless for a moment before opening the file. He glanced at the sketch on the top sheet. "This is the person Fiitawa described."

The other man nodded. "He's called Nightwing. His affiliation is with the Teen Titans, although our sources indicate that he might have left that team recently."

That caught the politician's interest. "For good?"

"Too early to tell, Sir."

Gerard absorbed that. "The information that he obtained," he said. "Presuming he has the resources at hand to decrypt it, could it be traced back to me?" At the other man's hesitation, he leaned forward. "Tell me the truth, Sewell."

The aide frowned. "Indirectly. According to Fiitawa, there's nothing on those discs that can finger you or the interests that you represent. However, it might lead back to Divakaruni and his earlier studies. And given that he turned you down…"

"If he sees the progress that's been made building on those initial studies, he may well realize that we've gone on without him," The senator shook his head. "If he goes public with that information, it could hurt us. What's the likelihood that this… Nightwing character will seek him out?"

"He was spotted in Las Vegas, last night," Sewell said. "That's less than 150 miles from Loma Linda. And he obtained those disks in Metropolis three days ago."

Gerard popped a Nicorette out of its blister pack. "Can our contacts deal with him?"

"Possibly," the younger man replied. "But there are other ramifications to consider." He reached over and lifted the first sheet from the stack in the dossier. The sketch beneath it showed another youth, one instantly familiar to both parties.

"Robin." The senator stated, after a moment's glance. "Is he involved in this, too?"

"Senator," Sewell said, "Before Nightwing appeared, Robin led the Teen Titans. Since Nightwing assumed leadership of that team, Robin has not been seen. Not in New York, not in Gotham. Moreover, the two crimefighters appear to be roughly the same age, and of identical height and build."

Gerard's eyes narrowed as he realized Sewell's implication. "So you think that…"

"I think we need to consider the possibility, yes. And, in that case, I think we would also need to recall that Robin spent years under the guidance of one reputed to be the 'world's greatest detective'. With his training, not only would Robin be likely to deduce our plans, but… were anything untoward to happen to him, assuming that he and Nightwing are one and the same, do we truly wish our activities to come to Batman's attention?"

"Good L-rd, no!" Gerard popped the gum into his mouth and sat back. "So then, our best plan is to prevent this… Nightwing… from speaking with Divakaruni. By any means possible."

"I concur, Senator. Although, of course, it would be preferable to avoid a… permanent solution."

"Naturally," Gerard sniffed. "Deadly force is not something that I'll sanction lightly. However, we cannot allow Divakaruni and Nightwing to meet under any circumstances. Advise our… associates to act accordingly.

* * *

Back at Ollie's, Dick stood uncertainly in the middle of the guest bedroom. He wasn't angry anymore. Not at Green Arrow, not at Babs nor at Roy nor even at himself. But he didn't feel comfortable staying under Ollie's roof any longer. Since he'd barely unpacked, it didn't take him long to gather his things together. He was nearly at the front door when he heard voices coming from the other room.

"It's like pulling teeth." The voice was vaguely familiar. It took him a moment to recognise it as belonging to the man he'd met the night before… 'Vigilante', Ollie had called him.

"But you got through to him, right, Chase?" Ollie.

"I tried," Vigilante said in a disgusted tone. "I told him that he had to talk to the feds. He said Scarapelli would kill him. I pointed out that his life was already on the line and he just started shaking and saying he didn't know what to do, over and over… I thought he was going to wet himself."

"Where is he, now?"

"Still at the house. Huntress is keeping an eye on things."

Dick caught the bewilderment in Ollie's tone. "The mob isn't going to try anything until those forty-eight hours are up. He doesn't need a bodyguard."

"No," Vigilante agreed angrily. "He needs a keeper. He's got this crazy idea that if he goes to Scarapelli and apologises, Tony will be so impressed that he'll wipe out the debt or give him more time."

Dick shook his head in amazement as Ollie snorted derisively.

"Scarapelli'll shoot him the instant he shows his face. Is he serious?"

"He's scared. Anyway, I'm going to drive into LA and talk with some of my contacts at the FBI. I think we can both agree going to the police here in Vegas would be a mistake."

Dick was getting tired of eavesdropping. Shouldering his knapsack, he knocked on the wall by the doorway. Both men turned to look at him.

"I thought I should head off," he said. "Thanks for everything, Mr. Queen." _Well, maybe not quite everything._

The formal address was not lost on Ollie. "What's with this 'Mr. Queen' garbage," he asked. "I told you, my friends call me 'Ollie'. Or 'GA', depending."

Dick chose not to answer the question. Right at the moment, he didn't know how he felt about Ollie. He supposed he should be grateful to him for clueing him in to the truth. _But then why do I feel like I'm going to take a swing at him if I stick around much longer?_ "If I leave now, I can probably make Loma Linda before dark."

Ollie frowned. "I thought Barbara was going with you."

Dick shook his head. "After what happened earlier, I think it's best that I just-"

"What? Pull a disappearing act?" He sighed and turned back to the other man as he placed a restraining hand on Dick's arm.

"Good luck in LA, Chase," he said. "Fill me in once you get back."

He watched the other man go, and then turned back to Dick. "Have a seat."

Dick blinked. Any hint of flippancy was gone from Ollie's voice. His eyes were deadly serious. It wasn't quite the 'bat-glare', but it was close enough to impress the younger man, even if it didn't exactly intimidate him.

Automatically he lowered himself to one of the kitchen chairs and sat, waiting.

Ollie faced him, then spun about, walked several paces away, and then doubled back. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and turned around again. He repeated this exercise several times before throwing up his hands and sitting down opposite Dick.

"Somehow," he said with some irritation, "I didn't think cutting and running would be your solution. That's something I would've expected of the Bat, not you."

Dick half-rose angrily. Ollie held up a hand. "You're hurting, kid. I get that. But somehow, I always took you for someone who worked through your pain." He smiled then, but there was no mirth in it. "Look, kid, to put it bluntly, you never had any say in who she-"

"Don't you think I know that?" Dick cut him off. "I don't care that she wasn't going out with me, it's…" He broke off, as he realised just whom he was talking to.

"It's that she was dating Roy," Ollie stated.

Dick was silent.

"Well, that's what you were going to say, wasn't it?" He snapped. He drew a deep breath and released it with a sigh. "Look. It's not quite what you're thinking between those two. Since, this technically isn't my business, let's just say that, at the time that they were… together, Roy was going through a rough patch. Barbara tried to help, but it didn't take long for her to know that she was in over her head." He smiled mockingly. "So, she talked him into coming to me for help. Made perfect sense, wouldn't you agree? I was, after all, the only father figure he had. And, well…"

He got up abruptly and resumed his pacing. "I always thought Bruce was too tough on you, kid, ya know? He never let you have a minute to yourself, was always on your case; G-d forbid you let your grades slip… I was sure you were going to…" he caught himself. "Well. Never mind that. I always told Roy he could come to me if he got into trouble. What'd the Bat tell you? 'Get into trouble and I'll use my connections to make sure the judge throws the book at you?'"

Dick opened his mouth to protest. Ollie waved him to silence.

"Doesn't matter. When Roy did come to me, like he should have, _I_ reacted that way. I shut him out of my life, NOT the way Bruce did with you—yes, I know about that. Barbara told me about why she left Gotham. I don't blame her. I can imagine he pulled the same thing with you or close enough. Anyway, I threw Roy out because I couldn't cope with his problems. Barbara stuck with him because the person who _should_ have had faith in him… didn't. They did date. Briefly. But her… relationship with him wasn't as… romantic as you probably thought it was, based on what you overheard." He took his seat again, not meeting Dick's eyes.

"Look," he said abruptly. "Stick around for now. Huntress needs some relief. You can fill in for her at Morton's. I wasn't lying to Chase, before. I really don't think the family has anything to worry about until Scarapelli's 48 hours are up. But, I believe that we've just established that I can mess up now and again."

For one instant, Ollie's trademark devil-may-care grin lit up his face. "And when I do, I do royally. In case this is one of those times, I'm sending Barbara out with you." He waved a hand to cut off Dick's protest. "You two have trained together, fought together… My people, we're still working on that level of cohesiveness. I'm going to tell Barbara the same thing. Bottom line, I promised Morton protection. Whatever you think of me, right now, however you feel about Barbara…"

Dick held up a hand. "Stop, Ollie," he said. "Right now, I don't want to hear it. You think I don't know what you're going to say next? Morton and his family have nothing to do with how I feel about you or Barbara right now. She and I do work well together, or at least we did the last time we went out as a team. And yes, Morton does need protection, so count me in. If Barbara is also willing, fine. But the instant Vigilante gets back, I'm gone."

Ollie smiled. "Wouldn't expect anything different from you, kid," he said as calmly as though the previous conversation hadn't taken place. It wasn't until he held out his hand for Dick to shake, and Dick took it, that the younger man realized how sweaty GA's palm was.

* * *

"Are you sure I can't offer you two anything?" Claire Morton held out the wicker tray with its assortment of fresh fruit and cookies for the sixth time that hour.

Nightwing shook his head. "We're good, thanks," he said. She smiled and withdrew. When she proffered the tray again, fifteen minutes later, he gave in and accepted a wooden skewer on which Mrs. Morton had threaded pineapple, strawberry, honeydew, and cantaloupe. She rewarded him with a relieved smile, and returned the tray to the Formica countertop. Taking a clean tea towel, she wet one corner mechanically and walked over to the highchair. The toddler gurgled happily as his mother wiped his face clean.

"Mom," ten-year-old Tyler called from the dining room, "how come a quarter divided by two isn't a half?"

Nightwing pushed open the swinging door between kitchen and dining room. The boy had the book open to the answers at the back, one hand clenching the intervening pages.

"It doesn't make sense," he protested. "Four divided by two is two!"

"You have to multiply by the reciprocal," Batgirl called. She walked to the table and sat down next to the boy. "See? One over four times one over two gives you how much?"

Tyler brightened. "Hey, yeah!" He glanced toward the living room, and sobered. "I think I got it, now," he said dully. "Thanks."

Nightwing smiled wistfully. When freshman algebra had been giving him more headaches than one of Nigma's crime-clues, Babs had helped him, too.

He walked into the living room. Morton was still sitting in the recliner, his head in his hands. He looked desperate. Unbidden, a phrase he had heard Bruce utter on more than one occasion floated into his mind. _Desperate people do desperate things._ Based on what Vigilante had said earlier, Nightwing couldn't afford to discount that particular truism. Palming a small tracer, he stole up behind the casino owner. "How are you holding up?" He asked, as he clapped the man on the shoulder.

Morton jumped. Nightwing withdrew his hand quickly, leaving the tracer on his cotton shirt. "Sorry," he lied. "I didn't mean to startle you." He'd meant to get some sort of reaction, any reaction from the man. His near-catatonia was unnerving. Only the baby seemed immune to it, thus far. He sighed. "Nothing's going to happen to you as long as we're here," he said reassuringly.

Morton exhaled. "I shoulda known better. I pay him, he makes sure the cops leave me alone, the rowdy customers wise up, Bertinelli's boys stay away. Instead, he's gonna kill me, he's…"

Nightwing laid a hand on Morton's forearm. Nobody had told him… "This was a protection scam?" He demanded.

"N-no scam," Morton stammered. "He _did_ protect me. And now that I've crossed him, no one else will."

Nightwing barely heard him. He was back in the past.

* * *

_"Oh, Dick?" Mary Grayson waited for her son to land solidly on the mat before calling out to him. "How comfortable do you feel doing the quadruple somersault?"_

_Dick considered. "I'm okay, I guess," he said carefully. Actually he'd nailed the move cold the last twenty times he'd attempted it, but his mother always told him not to brag._

" _Confidence is fine," she'd say. "Cockiness will cost you." Now she smiled._

" _Your father and I've been watching you practice," she said finally. "Do you think you're ready to work it into the act?"_

_Dick's heart leaped. "You mean as part of the show?" He exclaimed. At his mother's nod, the boy let out a whoop. "OBOY! I gotta tell Pop!" he shouted. He sprinted for the tent flap._

" _Dick!"_

_He froze, almost in mid-stride. Mary grinned. "You're dripping," she laughed as she tossed him a towel. Dick grinned back as he draped the towel over his shoulders and ran for Pop Haly's trailer. The breeze lifted the towel so that it flapped behind him like a white fuzzy cape._

_The door to the circus owner's trailer was shut. Dick knew that he wasn't supposed to go inside if the door was closed—it meant that someone was in there with Pop. He sighed. He'd just have to wait outside until whoever it was came out. He shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. It wasn't fair. This was the best news he'd had in… in… well in a really long time, and he couldn't share it with Pop. But he knew the rules. If the door was closed, he had to wait. And wait. And… how long was Pop going to be, anyway? Dick cautiously edged closer to the door, trying to determine whether whoever was inside with Pop sounded at all ready to leave._

" _And if you pay us, we protect you, get it, Haly?"_

_Dick froze. He wasn't sure why, but something about that voice terrified him._

_The next voice he heard made him jump. It was Pop, but he was shouting. Pop NEVER shouted. Except, he was now._

" _Yes! I get it. You're gangsters! It's a protection racket! I'll call the police!"_

_The first man spoke again, his even tone in direct contrast to Pop Haly's bluster. "You don't want to die, do you?" He intoned without inflection. "Be sensible. Pay us and protect the show from 'accidents'."_

" _Get out! Get out!"_

_Dick saw the door handle turn and hastened around the corner of the trailer. A third voice piped up: "Okay, Buddy. It's your funeral. Remember…'accidents' will happen."_

_The next time the Flying Graysons performed, one did. Of course, it wasn't really an accident. It only looked like one. And Dick's life was never the same after that performance._

* * *

"Don't worry about Scarapelli," Dick said. "He's not your problem any longer."

Morton raised disbelieving eyes. "You've gotta be on something," he exclaimed. "You heard them last night. If I don't get him his money he'll…"

"Not on _my_ watch," Nightwing gritted. "Trust me on that one."

Morton blinked. Then, almost imperceptibly he nodded.

The phone on the end table rang. Dick reached for it, but Morton was faster.

"Hello?"

Nightwing watched him as he held the receiver to his ear for about thirty seconds. At the end of that time, he returned the receiver to its cradle. "Wrong number," he said. He got up from the chair carefully, wincing as he put weight on his knee "I'd like to talk to my wife in private for a moment," he added, a note of authority creeping into his voice for the first time since Dick had met him.

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he brushed past Dick and walked toward the kitchen, limping slightly. Dick watched him go. A minute passed. Two… Three… Then, from outside came the unmistakable sound of a car engine firing.

Biting back a curse, Nightwing ran for the front door, Batgirl behind him. Claire Morton threw herself in their path. "Let him go," she protested. "It's the only chance we've got!"

Nightwing was in no mood to argue. He took her firmly by the shoulders and moved her aside. It was too late. The car was gone. Dick fought down a surge of anger. The face he turned to Mrs. Morton a moment later spoke more of sorrow than anything else.

"He might have just sealed your fate," Nightwing said. "Scarapelli gave you forty-eight hours. In forty-eight hours, you would have been out of his reach. Right now, your husband is on his way to tell him that he's not going to be able to get the money together. You really think Scarapelli's going to stick to that deadline, then?"

The colour drained from Claire Morton's face. Her lips formed a perfect 'O' as a hand flew to her mouth.

Nightwing knew that he should offer some words of reassurance, but there wasn't time. "Batgirl," he said, "take them. Get them out of here. Head for the California border. Can you contact Vigilante?"

Batgirl nodded.

"Do that. Arrange for him to meet you. I'm going after Morton." He looked at Claire. "I'll bring him back safe," he stated. "You can bank on it."

 _He hoped_.

* * *

By the time Claire had managed to pack a suitcase with the essentials for one adult and two children, and filled a large grocery bag with ready-to-eat food, Barbara had managed to remove the child's car seat from Claire's car and secure it within Zatanna's red Chevrolet Malibu. She looked wistfully around the garage, her eye falling on her bike. She loved that motorcycle. But there was no way that she could take another adult and two children-one still a baby-on the thing. And if she were to try, it would only attract too much attention from other motorists. The car was a loan, and one she had hoped not to have to use. Batgirl tested the car seat straps a final time to ensure that they were secure.

The door that connected the garage to the rest of the house opened. Tyler walked forward, carefully holding his brother, Gavin. Claire followed behind with the suitcase. Once it was stowed in the trunk, she took Gavin and settled him into the car seat.

"We…" she looked at Batgirl nervously. "We're not coming back here. Ever." It was not a question.

Batgirl shook her head slightly. "I doubt it."

"Get in, Tyler," Claire said automatically. She turned back to Barbara. "It's only things," she said. "I know that. We'll start over fresh somewhere. The children will adjust. Of course they will. I just… I just…"

 _No! Don't break down on me now! I can face the Royal Flush gang. I can face Joker. Please don't make me face a woman on the verge of hysteria when we've got to leave right this second!_ "Ma'am?"

"Mommy?" Tyler leaned forward anxiously. "You okay?"

Claire turned back, startled. When she spoke, though, her voice was almost normal again. "Put your seatbelt on, Tyler. Attaboy. I'm coming in on the other side."

Batgirl shut the door behind her. Then she took up her seat behind the wheel and turned on the ignition. The power locks engaged automatically. In the rear-view mirror, she saw mother and son hold hands across the car seat. She couldn't tell who was reassuring whom.

"Okay," she said as she turned on the ignition. "Once we get on the highway, I'm going to go as fast as I can without getting a ticket." She looked back and grinned. "So just pretend this is the bumper-cars at Adventuredome, only we're going to try not to hit the other drivers, alright?"

Tyler goggled at her. "Superheroes go to Adventuredome?"

 _Superhero?_ Batgirl felt her face flushing. _Me? Oh, come on._ She laughed as they pulled out of the driveway. _I hope he's right. The good guys are always supposed to win, aren't they?_

* * *

 _Not on my watch_ , Nightwing thought to himself disgustedly as he kept one eye on the road and the other on his onboard computer. _Idiot!_ The tracer he'd stuck on Morton showed as a blip on the screen, nearly fourteen blocks east and twenty-two blocks south of his position. He followed, doing his best to maintain his distance. He didn't know his way around the city well enough to risk an intercept course. Chances were, that when he needed to turn left, a traffic sign would advise him that such a move was forbidden. The next intersection would be one-way—the wrong way. The one after that would give him a choice between continuing straight or turning onto the highway back to Arizona. And by the time he got himself turned around… Oldtown in Gotham was like that, apart from the highway pointing toward Massachusetts instead of Arizona. He'd heard that downtown Boston was similar. Rather than take that chance in Vegas, he kept his eyes on Morton's route, following precisely.

Morton was heading back to the Strip, it seemed. It figured. He saw the tracer hold steady for a moment. Then it began moving forward, but at a far slower rate. He must have parked the car. Nightwing looked around at the traffic and cursed. He didn't dare go any faster than he was already going.

Frowning, he enabled the microphone on the tracer. True, it would reduce the life of the power-cell on the device to roughly forty-five minutes, but he had to know what was going on.

* * *

"This way, Sir." The petite Asian girl ushered Morton into a windowless office with red plush carpeting. Heavy tapestries adorned the walls from ceiling to floor, making the room feel stuffy and confining. Morton fought claustrophobia as he wondered why Scarapelli had things set up that way.

The mobster laced his fingers together and sat, resting his wrists on the edge of his desk. "Alright, Lionel," he said. "I'm listening."

Morton froze.

"Do you have my money, Lionel?" Scarapelli asked, after a moment. He didn't sound angry. To anyone else in earshot, it would have sounded like a polite inquiry.

Morton slowly shook his head. "I can get it," he whispered. "But I need more time."

Scarapelli nodded sagely. "Of course you do, Lionel. After all," he added, "it took you more than forty-eight hours to steal it from me. I suppose it might have been unfair for me to have set such an unreasonable deadline." His tone hardened. "Wouldn't you say?"

Morton gulped. "You… you're a fair man, Mr. Scarapelli. Always."

"And honorable?"

"Yessir."

"Meaning that if I give my word, you know that you can rely on it. So, if I were to tell you that you could have another month, you'd know that you'd be safe until then, correct?"

Morton nodded eagerly, but he felt his shoulders tense. Something seemed to be wrong, something he couldn't quite pinpoint. "That's right."

"Because I'm a man of my word."

"Right!"

"And if I were to break my word, I'd lose face."

"Exactly!"

Scarapelli shook his head soberly. "And you see, Lionel, that's the crux of the problem." His tone hardened. "Because I've given you forty-eight hours. And I've outlined the consequences if you didn't meet my conditions. And I'm a man of my word."

Morton staggered. "My… my family," he began feebly.

Scarapelli shook his head. "That's a bad business," he said sympathetically. "You messed up. It shouldn't have gotten them involved.

"Jade," he called to the girl standing behind Morton, "Would you call Nick Miglione in here?"

She withdrew without a word. A moment later she returned, with Miglione in tow.

Scarapelli regarded the newcomer with some dismay. "Buckwheat, Nicky? For the whole family? How old's your youngest, Lionel?"

Morton swallowed. "Eigh-eighteen months."

The mobster's face wrinkled in disgust. "Eighteen months," he repeated. "What kind of monster are you trying to turn me into, Nicky? You think I'd want to do that to a baby?

"That other kid of yours… he's ten now, right? Plays soccer with my nephew? What's his name… Tyrone?"

"Tyler."

Scarapelli nodded. "That's right." His voice lowered an octave. "Nicky… _I don't like killing KIDS!_ " He crooked a finger at Jade, who stood unobtrusively by the door. An instant later, a shot rang out and Nick fell heavily to the floor, red blood almost a precise match for the shade of the carpet.

Morton realized a moment later why Scarapelli had the wall-hangings: they made the small room virtually soundproof. He looked at Nick lying there and felt like he was going to be sick.

Scarapelli took no notice. "Regrettably, Lionel, Nick was representing me when he made that statement. I can't go back on it, even though I didn't actually say it. It would hurt my reputation, you understand me?"

Lionel sank to his knees. "Then… it's over. My coming here… did nothing." He raised his eyes. "Did it?"

Scarapelli sighed. "I'm sorry. Truly. But since you saved us the trouble of tracking you down…

"I'll spare you having to watch it being done to your wife and kids. We'll do you first. Jade. Deal with him. Don't drag it out any longer than you have to," he added. "And get him out of here before you start…"

That was as far as he got before someone kicked open the door behind the tapestry, hurtling into the hanging rug with enough force to dislodge it from its moorings.

Jade didn't hesitate. She raised her gun and began firing.

* * *

Nightwing listened to the conversation with a sense of mounting horror. Scarapelli sounded too calm, too reasonable, considering what Morton had done. _He's up to something_ , he realized as he waited impatiently for the traffic light to change. It did, finally, right as Scarapelli mentioned that his nephew and Morton's son played soccer together.

Nightwing was parking the 'cycle when the gunshot rang out. He cursed, jumped off the bike, and started running toward the building. He didn't bother removing his helmet. The guard at the door held up a hand to stop him. Nightwing slammed him into the brick wall of the building and was through the door before the man slumped, unconscious, to the ground. He raised the visor of his helmet to switch on the full-spectrum lenses in the mask. Then he sped down the hallway using the infra-red vision to scan for other people. As he ran past one part of the wall, he detected three warm bodies and a figure on the ground losing body-heat fast on the other side. _Bingo_. He looked for, and located, the door. There was no time for anything fancy. He backed up against the opposite wall. Not much of a running start but it would have to do. Then, with a flying kick, he launched himself at the door. It gave way, and his momentum carried him forward into the hanging tapestry. As the carpet collapsed before him, he felt something reverberate against his helmet. Somebody was firing at him…

He was a dead man. He'd already taken two shots to the helmet, and his ears were ringing as the metal reverberated…

…as the metal reverberated

…reverberated

As in… the bullets were bouncing off. Kevlar suit, bullet-proof helmet… Nightwing didn't have time to sigh his relief, or thank Bruce for _that_ unexpected surprise, but he permitted himself a smile as he cast a nightarang in the direction of the shooter. She dodged the first but stepped into the path of the second and third. She dropped the gun with a cry and clapped a hand to her bleeding wrist. Nightwing's eyes narrowed.

_What kind of shooter wears green press-on nails?_

The young woman dropped to a fighting stance, one arm back, the other extended before her. With a snarl, she launched herself at him.

With reflexes honed by years of practice, Nightwing crouched, and leaped forward, causing his assailant to overreach herself. She landed in a forward roll and sprang up, eyes flashing.

_She's good. My luck._

Nightwing rose to his feet, and stood poised, waiting. She feinted, he dodged, and she delivered a high kick to his solar plexus.

_Really good._

He fell, rolled onto his elbows and kicked behind him. He was rewarded by a grunt as his boot connected. Nightwing regained his footing, in time to sidestep as she came toward him again.

He grabbed her arm, and she slashed the fingernails of her free hand against his chest. The upper layer of the fabric gave way, but the layers of weave below still held together.

_Razor-sharp nails, meet shank-resistant Kevlar._

He pinned her other wrist, and hoisted her several inches off the ground. She kicked ineffectively, but continued to struggle.

Finally, she managed to plow an elbow into his ribcage. As he gasped for breath, she broke free, and swiped again at the costume. Another slash appeared in the pectoral region. Like the first, it did not penetrate clear through to the skin beneath.

Nightwing had had enough. Whoever this young woman was, she was clearly no amateur, and in that case… the kid gloves were off. He launched himself spinning into the air, and delivered two rapid kicks to the side of her head. She reeled, half stunned. He abandoned the capoeira-style fighting, shifting instead to the punches, throws, and undercuts of agni kempo.

The blend of Brazilian and Russian martial arts seemed to stymie the young woman. She continued her attack, but now she was on the defensive. Her countermoves became more desperate, her techniques more erratic, until finally, Nightwing was able to get in past her guard to apply a suffocation hold. The woman went limp in his arms, but he maintained his grip a moment longer. From what he'd seen, she wasn't above playing possum. When he released her, however, she slumped to the ground, breathing shallowly. He secured her wrists and ankles with plastic ties.

For the first time, Nightwing realized that Scarapelli must have left during the fight. He thought for a moment. Then he took a nightarang in hand and used its sharp edge to scratch: ' **They are under** **my protection, now. Do not attempt to find them'** into the teakwood desk. He hesitated. Then he shrugged his shoulders and carved a stylized emblem, similar to the symbol he wore on his uniform, directly below the message.

He looked behind him. Morton was sitting against the wall, a dumbfounded expression on his face. "You okay?"

Morton nodded shakily.

Nightwing extended a hand. "Then let's go meet up with your family."

* * *

Claire Morton tweaked the window curtains for the fifth time. The room at the Motel Wills Fargo in Baker, California was clean and adequately furnished, but she barely noticed. She'd put Gavin down for a nap, and turned on the TV to a Family Ties rerun for Tyler. Now, with nothing left to do, panic was setting in.

"Where is he?"

"He's coming," Batgirl repeated the mantra for what felt like the millionth time. Adrian was outside, keeping an eye on the perimeter. He'd joined them two hours ago. "Nightwing has the situation under control." She hoped.

What if Scarapelli shot him? He's strong, fast, and smart. That doesn't mean invulnerable. And if he dies, his last thought of me will be how I hurt-"

"Batgirl," Claire asked, eerily calm, "if this… this arrangement that your… friend has brokered with the FBI is based on my husband testifying against the mob, and my husband is d-dead," her voice wavered on the word, but steadied, "what does that mean for my children and myself?"

 _Good question_. Barbara started to tell the older woman not to worry about things like that, and then reconsidered.

"You'll have protection," she said firmly. "If not from the feds, then from us. I can promise that." She saw Tyler lying on the double bed, pretending to be engrossed in Mallory Keaton's school woes, while Alex provided snarky rejoinders to her every word. _If I have to quit the team and become a full-time bodyguard, I can promise that._

Claire nodded, unconvinced. "I think I'll put some hot water in the kettle," she announced.

The show broke for a commercial, just then. Tyler got up without a word and took his mother's place at the window. An instant later, he dropped the curtain excitedly. "They're here, they're here! And Daddy's riding on a motorcycle!"

Adrian Chase pushed open the front door to admit the two men. Claire collapsed into her husband's arms. He staggered as his injured knee buckled. Claire guided him to a chair. "I thought…" she started to say, "I thought…"

Morton didn't let go of her. "I know, baby. Me too. We're going to be okay."

Barbara glanced at Nightwing as he followed Adrian and Lionel into the motel room. She realized that she had been worried about him, and that right at that moment, if he had hugged her, she wouldn't have hesitated to hug him back. But he made no move, and the moment passed.

* * *

Adrian and the Mortons left for Los Angeles before sunrise the next morning.

After a hasty breakfast, Dick and Barbara prepared to leave for Loma Linda. He'd told her that it wasn't necessary for her to come along unless she wanted to. Her reply had been that she would only turn back if he didn't want her company.

"You're going like that?" She asked incredulously, as she took in the frayed jeans, dingy white t-shirt, and tacky sports jacket. "C'mon, Matches wouldn't be caught dead in that coat!"

"All part of the disguise, Doll," Dick said. The New Jersey accent felt more natural this time. "Nightwing and daylight don't exactly mix, see? And I don't really want my real name getting out."

"So you're…" Barbara tried not to laugh. "Robbie Malone?"

"S'right, Doll. What's so funny?" He smirked. There was another advantage to this persona: 'Robbie' didn't have any past relationship with Barbara. Somehow, slipping into this role made it easier for him to work with her: if there was no reason for Robbie Malone to feel hurt or uncomfortable in her presence, then, in the interest of maintaining his cover, he could banish those emotions.

Barbara grinned back. "You. We'd better get a move on."

He nodded and sauntered to the door.

"Oh, Robbie?" She called.

He turned to face her.

"Call me 'Doll' again," she said seriously, although her smile never wavered, "and you'll be the one crying 'mama'."

* * *

Two-and-a-half hours later, a blue motorcycle and a red Chevy arrived at the University of Loma Linda. They pulled into the parking lot adjoining the LLU Medical Centre at Anderson Street and Barton Road.

"What's going on?" Barbara asked suddenly, noting the police car parked outside the building.

Dick shrugged. "Campus security, maybe?"

"No. They've got their own officers for that, not local constabulary," she replied.

Dick absorbed that. "Could be trouble." He looked down at his own attire. "Find out what's going on, Barb." It was a compromise. Robbie wouldn't say 'Barbara' and Dick couldn't call her 'Babs'. "A mug like mine, they wouldn't give the time of day to."

Barbara went and returned a few minutes later, expression serious. "That geneticist we came here to meet?" she asked. "You said his name was Ram Prasad Divakaruni?"

"That's right."

Her expression was sober. "Well, that's why they're here. According to the officer I just spoke with, he's been kidnapped."


	7. One More Mile, One Step Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick has a plan to rescue the kidnapped scientist... but has he bitten off more than he can chew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreaders: Charlene Edwards, Kalin Fields and Debbie Reed
> 
> DC characters owned by DC comics. Used without permission but with joyous appreciation
> 
> Robbie Malone created by Charlene Edwards. Used with permission.
> 
> A/N This arc is complete. Next up: The Apokolips Imperative, part 6: Giants at the Door. This story is part of a crossover event at the DC2. To get the full effect, please visit [The Apokolips Imperative](http://www.dc2universe.net/thread/7598/crisis-apokolips-imperative) at dc2universe.com.

_There are those who say, you can look too hard  
For your place in the world_

_Takes some of us a little longer_  
A few false starts gonna make you stronger  
When I'm sure I've finally found it  
Gonna wrap these arms all around it

_Could be one more mile, or just one step back_

_Mary Chapin Carpenter, "A Place in the World"_

  
  


**One More Mile, One Step Back**

"Kidnapped," Dick frowned. Oddly, he wasn't surprised. Somehow or other, it seemed that ever since he'd started wearing the Robin suit, life just naturally complicated itself. Other people, it seemed, could walk down the street without spotting a hold-up in a shop window. Other people could go hiking in the woods without stumbling across some criminal's hideout. And, odds were, when other people cut clear across the country to meet with a scientist, they could get to see him with relatively little difficulty.

Barbara nodded. "His first class of the day showed up in the lab and found it trashed. He hasn't been seen since."

"Any evidence to suggest that he was in the lab when they ransacked it?"

"The cops I just talked to didn't exactly want to fill me in on the investigation," Barbara shrugged. "Guess we suit up?"

"Nope." Dick shook his head as he shed the tacky jacket he'd been wearing. "This is a university, and we can both pass for students. With a campus population of about 3,200, it's got to be a pretty close-knit community. A teacher disappearing… people are bound to talk."

"Except that since this _is_ such a small place, they'll know we don't belong here."

Dick considered that. "I think," he said slowly, "if we don't do anything to stand out, we should be alright. I mean, the school's not hermetically sealed; people are going to be passing in and out. Plus, students can arrive mid-semester. Wait!" He grinned. "You said it yourself: last year, you were a prospect scouting the campus. Think that story might hold up for two of us?"

Barbara nodded slowly. "And with all the excitement going on, nobody's giving us clear directions, so we keep getting lost." She stopped. "Normally, that would probably work. But with Divakaruni missing, they're probably going to have an eye out for anyone who doesn't fit in around here."

She had a point. "The costumes work better at night," he said. "And if anyone gets a good look… two kids in jeans and T-shirts who blunder into the wrong place at a bad time might attract some attention, but apart from grilling us for a few hours, there's not much they can do."

"They'd probably try to check our story."

Dick sighed. "Then I admit to being an undercover reporter from the _Daily Planet_ , sent to cover the kidnapping, and ask them to contact the guy in Metropolis who got me my press credentials. And you can call Ollie, I guess."

"How about calling Bruce?" Barbara teased.

Dick pretended to think it over. "I'll call my dad, if you call yours first."

She blanched. "Don't even joke about that." She glowered. "And stop snickering!"

Dick raised his hands in a placatory gesture. "Fine." He held up the campus map he'd downloaded earlier. "Let's just walk around and listen to what people are saying." He stabbed his finger down at the parking lot. "We're here. I'll head west on Barton, then north on Campus. You take Anderson north, then make a left, and go west on Stewart. We'll rendezvous in a half-hour at the corner of Campus and Stewart."

"Got it."

* * *

Twenty-eight minutes later, the two met in front of the Alumni Hall for Basic Science. "We may have caught a break," Barbara said. "Someone spotted a bunch of military types hustling Divakaruni into a minivan at about 5:30 this morning and called campus security. All that bumper-to-bumper traffic we saw on I-10 westbound? It wasn't due to an accident, like we thought. They've had all the roads out of Loma Linda blocked since about twenty to six this morning."

Dick nodded. He remembered the drive in. There'd been no traffic problems on I-10 east, but they'd both noticed the virtual crawl in the opposite direction. A new thought occurred to him. "Was that normal? Him being up in the lab that early?"

Barbara raised her hands to shoulder height and spread them. "Nobody else seemed surprised by it."

Dick started forward. "And the abduction happened ten minutes before they set up the roadblocks. Either the kidnappers were driving _very_ fast—"

"Which they wouldn't have been, if they wanted to avoid causing an accident or getting pulled over for speeding—"

"Right. Which means they're still in town. Maybe even still on campus." Dick nodded. "Let's head back to the lab area. See if the cops missed anything."

* * *

By the time they got back to the medical centre building, the investigative team had gone. An 'X' of yellow crime-scene tape blocked the door off.

"Keep an eye on the corridors," Dick instructed. "I'm going to try getting in."

The door wouldn't budge. Now, he noticed the card-scanner situated at what would have been knob-height—had the door possessed a knob. He knew how to breach the system, of course. All he needed was enough time and the right tools. For the kidnappers to do so, on the other hand… Dick bent down and examined the scanner carefully. He whistled. _That's a nice chunk of the science budget gone, right there_ , he realized.

Abruptly, Dick moved away from the door, and motioned to Barbara. "Come on."

She exhaled in relief. "I wasn't sure how I was going to explain what we were doing if we'd gotten caught, just now. But… you couldn't get in."

"It doesn't matter. I forgot something important: the labs are off-limits to anyone without a pass-card. And this is one of the better systems: use the wrong card more than twice in a short space of time, and it alerts security. Which means that in order to get in, the kidnappers either had to have Divakaruni let them in, or they'd have to have stolen a card—"

"They would have had to work fast, then," Barbara interrupted. "These things work like credit cards. Once you report them as lost, they get deactivated in seconds."

"Right. And using a cancelled card would also trigger an alarm," Dick nodded. "The other possibility is that someone at the university is affiliated with the kidnappers, somehow." He looked around.

"The delivery door's down this way, isn't it?"

Barbara nodded. "Another left. What do you think you'll find?"

"I don't know, exactly." Dick admitted. "But if the kidnappers were in military gear, and at least one of them also has a legitimate reason to be on campus…"

The loading area was deserted. Dick stepped forward to examine a pile of wooden crates.

"Want some help?" Barbara asked.

"No, thanks. If anyone comes, I was expecting a package from home, and it's late. I was checking to see if it got directed here by accident."

Barbara frowned. "That has got to be one of the lamest excu—"

"Fine. Come up with a better one, then." He saw a piece of black fabric wadded up next to the loading ramp. He was about to ignore it when he saw something glisten. "Oh sh—"

"You eat Alfred's brownies with that mouth, Short-pants?" She sobered when she saw the look in his eyes. "What?"

Dick lifted the garment. It was a jacket. And clearly, its owner had worn it during some sort of struggle. One of its epaulets had been torn off. The other, however, was intact. As was the red stone embedded in the fabric. A green ski mask that had been tucked into the jacket fell to the ground

"Don't ask me why, right now, Babs," the nickname came out automatically. "But it looks like the Carnelian Order is mixed up in this."

* * *

"The C.O.?" Babs repeated, once they were outside again. "I'd expect them to be more interested in biochemical weapons. I mean, even if they wanted Divakaruni to work for them—"

Dick sighed. "I know. Divakaruni deliberately avoided putting his theories into practise. Even if he could be somehow… persuaded otherwise, it's not like he could deliver a super soldier to them in thirty days. And he'd need state-of-the-art facilities. So far, we haven't been able to uncover any evidence that shows that the Order is anything other than a bunch of guys with guns, who like to wear combat fatigues, and have some really screwy ideas about how to run a government."

He continued thinking aloud as they walked. "If someone spotted the kidnapping, and sounded the alarm, the jacket and mask are really the only parts of the uniform that would arouse suspicion. People do wear camouflage pants, and turtlenecks, after all. So, most of the terrorists leave with Divakaruni, and one loses part of his uniform and walks away."

"Why?" Barbara asked. "Wouldn't he leave with the others?"

"Maybe, maybe not. If they had access to the labs, then it might make sense that one or more of them would be enrolled here, either as bona fide students, or pretending to be."

"Makes sense," Barbara admitted. "So, how do we find them?"

Dick considered. After a moment, his eyes lit up. "Let's head back to the lot. I think I've got an idea."

* * *

"You've got to be sweltering in that costume," Barbara said. "How can you stand wearing it under your civvies?"

"Discomfort builds character," Dick answered with a grin. He was clutching a large bottle of water. In the ninety-degree heat, hydration was essential.

"I really hate that jacket," Barbara remarked. She stepped back and examined her handiwork critically. "Button it," she said. "You can still see the wire."

Dick complied. "Better?"

"No." She retorted. "It's hideous. And it makes you stand out like a sore thumb, here."

"I'm from out of town, Barb." The New Jersey accent was back. "Dis is how we dress in da big city, see?"

"You're not funny. And you're going to get caught."

A broad grin spread across his face. "That's the idea, Barb. I don't know where to start looking for Divakaruni, but with any luck, somebody's going to take me right to him. And with any more luck, we'll get the whole scheme recorded," he tapped the sound equipment lightly, "on tape. Now, is the wire hidden?"

The red-haired woman sighed. "You'll pass." Under her breath she added, "as long as you're not taking wardrobe consulting."

* * *

The plan was simple: walk around, ask questions and pretend to try to be subtle about it. He'd been right, before. It was a small campus, and faculty and students all seemed to know each other, by sight if not by name. Dick had only to mention that he was planning on a speciality in immunology or molecular genetics and had been hoping to meet with Divakaruni, and it seemed that everyone had a story to tell.

"And nobody knows where they took the guy?" He asked for the fifth time.

"No," returned a youth about his own age, with a snarl. "Cuz if they knew, he'd be back, right?"

Dick allowed himself a sardonic smile. "Maybe, but somehow, I don't think the guys that took him got too far. They might even still be on campus."

The teen squinted suspiciously at him. "How come you seem to know so much about this?" His hands reached out and grasped the lapels of Dick's plaid jacket. "If you had _anything_ to do with _—_ "

"Ease off, Carlos." The voice was quiet, but rang with clear authority. "He's just asking some questions. That's all."

Carlos relinquished his hold on the lapels, but not his belligerence. "I just think it's kind of funny that Dr. Divakaruni vanishes, and then this guy turns up all of a sudden and starts grilling us for info."

"Which means he probably doesn't know anything about the kidnapping, right?" The newcomer grinned. He turned to Dick. "Or you'd have all the answers, wouldn't you?"

He held out his hand. "I'm Alan Hilliker. Doctor Divakaruni's my honors advisor."

"Robbie Malone." Dick grasped the hand firmly. He smirked at Carlos. "Nice to know someone around here's got a brain."

Alan drew his brows together. "Let it go. You said you think he's still around?"

Dick nodded. "All the roads out of town are blocked, see? He's gotta be somewhere around here."

Carlos looked sceptical. "Such as?"

Dick spread his hands. "Hey, this is your campus. How'm I s'posed ta know? But I guess it would have to be a place where not a lot of people can get in. Like maybe one of the other labs?"

One of the young women listening shook her head. "They drove off in a van. They're probably in town somewhere, if they didn't get through the roadblock."

"Still," Alan said thoughtfully, "maybe we could check it out." He clamped a hand onto Dick's shoulder. "I'll give you a tour of the campus, and see if I can get security to open the labs for us. I have access to three of them, myself. Sound good?" He smiled.

Dick grinned back. "Lead on, pal."

* * *

It took every ounce of control Dick had not to turn around when he heard the light tread behind them in the corridor that led to the chemistry labs. Combat instincts, honed by years on the streets of Gotham, told him that there were six of them. He had an instant to wonder whether he couldn't have come up with a better idea. Then, leather-gloved hands seized his arms, forcing them behind his back. He tried to shout to Alan to run, but somebody jammed a wad of cloth into his mouth. A pillowcase was thrown over his head, and he felt a sash pass around his throat twice before someone tied it snugly enough to be uncomfortable, but loosely enough to allow him to breathe. He felt cold metal on his wrists, and he heard two clicks as the cuffs snapped shut.

"Get him out of here," someone said.

The hands on his arms tightened their grip and hustled him down the hallway.

* * *

As far as Dick could determine, they'd had the van parked right outside the building. They'd tossed him in, and taken a circuitous route to their destination. Dick suspected that it was still on campus, but he couldn't be sure.

Once the van stopped, hands took him again, and he was half-dragged, half-carried into another building. They marched him down a flight of stairs, and along what was probably another series of corridors, before his captors hoisted him into mid-air, and then plunked him down hard on a wooden chair. One wrist was freed, and then somebody immediately jerked it back, and re-manacled his hand behind the chair-back. Someone fumbled at the sash that fastened the pillowcase, while two other people bound his ankles securely to the chair legs.

The pillowcase was unceremoniously removed, and one ski-masked figure pulled the wad of packing out of Dick's mouth. Dick retched, and another of his captors held a cup to his lips. He took a tentative sip, trying to discern whether it might be drugged. It tasted like ordinary water. He quickly gulped the rest of it down, and the soldier took the empty cup away.

"Who are you?" The question was asked without preamble.

He didn't answer. His interrogator drew back a fist and delivered a punch to his lower lip. Dick tasted salt. Somebody else searched his pockets, and tossed his wallet to the man asking the questions.

"Robert Michael Malone, hmmm?" The soldier held up his driver's license. The man sniffed. "What's this? A press card? You're a long way from Metropolis, aren't y—" he broke off in mid-word. Three quick steps brought him directly in front of the chair. He pulled roughly at the jacket lapels, ignoring Dick's angry protest, as the button popped off and fell to the floor. "You little punk!" He shouted, as he delivered another punch, this time to Dick's abdomen. He turned to his companions.

"He's wired. The bastard's wearing a goddamned wire!" The soldier ripped it off with a single savage motion and took another swing.

Dick winced when the blow landed. He was going to have a black eye tomorrow, no question about it.

"Who are you? Who's on the other end of this thing?"

His silence seemed to infuriate the questioner all the more. The man seized a handful of his captive's T-shirt and pulled. The chair tipped slightly forward, as the restraints dug into Dick's wrists and ankles. "Answer me, you little sh—!" His captor backhanded him again.

There was a ripping sound, as the chair rocked back, and the cheap T-shirt tore. Behind the ski-mask, Dick saw brown eyes grow wide.

"That suit," his interrogator gasped. He leaned forward, took hold of the fabric again, and ripped the shirt asunder. "Well, well. So, Nightwing… is really some punk-kid named Robbie Malone who works for the _Daily Planet_. Isn't _this_ interesting?" He straightened, and started barking orders.

"You, you!" He pointed. "Stay in here with the prisoner." He singled out two more of his men and instructed them to stand guard outside. "The rest of you come with me. And nobody lay another hand on him until I talk to Washington and find out what _he_ has to say about it."

 _Whoa. Wait._ Dick thought. _Washington?_

He watched as the other soldiers trooped out, and his two remaining captors took up positions on either side of the door. Then, he worked a lock-pick out of the lining of his jacket, and concentrated on getting the cuffs open.

* * *

"Um… yo?"

One of the guards looked up. "Quiet."

Dick turned his face away, feigning embarrassment. "I gotta use your bathroom."

"What?"

"Bathroom, washroom, head. Whatever youse call it in this part of the country." He sighed. "Look. How d'ya think I managed to keep from keeling over in this California heat of yours? I must've drunk a gallon of water already today, see. C'mon, I really gotta go, here."

The two guards looked at each other. "I don't know," one said.

The other trained his rifle on Nightwing. Then he nodded to his companion. "Untie him." As the first guard moved to comply, the second addressed the captive. "You try anything and—"

Nightwing rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. 'I'll have more holes in me than Swiss cheese.' Or is that 'I'll never have to worry about ventilation problems with the suit ever again?' 'I'll be a candidate for sainthood; they'll call me the Holey Vigilante?' How about…"

"You talk too much," muttered the guard as he loosened the second rope.

"Yep," Nightwing replied. "And I try too hard. See?" With that, he kicked the militant squarely in the jaw, while hurling himself sideways out of the chair. Too late, his captors realized that their prisoner's hands were already free.

Nightwing flipped into a handstand, then somersaulted across the floor to land upright, scant inches from his gun-toting adversary. Before the other man could react, a quick chop to the wrist sent his rifle clattering to the floor. The young vigilante plowed an elbow into his face and followed with a hard blow to the solar plexus.

The Carnelian soldier doubled over, gasping. Nightwing heard the other man coming toward him in a rush.

 _They almost never just try to get away. They just keep coming until I knock 'em out._ He sighed mentally and kicked the fallen assault weapon away, then poised to meet the new threat.

The second man got one jab in before Nightwing swung his manacled wrist in a wide arc. The free-dangling cuff connected with the soldier's face and he cried out, hands flying upward to shield his eyes. Of course, that left his abdomen defenceless against his adversary's roundhouse kick. The man sank to his knees with a groan.

Nightwing thought for a moment, and then removed one of the soldiers' jackets. He used what was left of the ropes to truss his two former captors back-to-back. Then he removed the other soldier's ski mask.

"Hi, Alan, imagine meeting you, here." He wished it surprised him, but the youth had been a bit too eager to help, and a little too quick to pump him for information. And, small campus or not, meeting up with someone purporting to have exactly the sort of clearance needed to get into the labs had seemed a little too convenient.

He made sure to remove the ammo clips from both rifles. He donned the jacket and ski mask, and pushed the door open, taking advantage of the other two guards' momentary confusion to dispatch them. Then he picked the lock on his remaining manacle, and cuffed their wrists together.

"Alright," he snarled, pulling his mask out of a hidden inner pocket. "Where's Divakaruni?"

* * *

The man sat on the cot with a scowl. He had no idea how long he had been confined here, in this room. He had not been questioned. He had not been attacked. In point of fact, the only thing that his captors had done was instruct him to 'sit tight for a little while'.

His son would probably be thrilled, Ram Prasad Divakaruni reflected sourly. The young man was always protesting the long hours that his father spent in the lab. Perhaps he had staged this kidnapping in order to force the elder Divakaruni to relax. The geneticist's lips twitched at the idea.

Shouts reached him from outside the locked door to his room. He heard a muffled thud. Then, the door opened and a dark-haired young man whom he had never before laid eyes on poked his head in.

"Dr. Divakaruni?"

The doctor rose to his feet. "I am he."

The youth's face broke into a smile. "Nightwing. We need to talk, but not here. Feel like leaving?"

Divakaruni took a step forward. His eyes widened. "Behi—"

That was as much warning as he was able to shout. The masked figure looming behind his would-be rescuer suddenly gave 'Robbie' a hard shove, which propelled the youth into the room.

The heavy door slammed shut.

Dick sighed. He could probably get the door open and fight his way out alone, but with a civilian in tow, it was too risky. On the other hand, if Barbara's part in this was going according to plan… "Maybe we _could_ talk in here, after all."

* * *

"You what?" Patrick Sewell could scarcely believe his ears. "I told you. The entire purpose of keeping the doctor here was to prevent him from meeting with Nightwing. You've locked them in a room together, you idiot!"

The soldier reddened. "Our unit consists of eight men. The hostile took out four of us in less than ten minutes. You ordered us to keep both prisoners alive and to hold them here until you arrived. Had we attempted to separate the two, we might not have accomplished either objective."

Sewell was shaking his head. "Keeping them separate was more important. If Divakaruni talks…"

"I don't think it's a problem, Sir." The masked man held up the mangled remains of the wire and transmitter that they had taken from Nightwing earlier. "Without evidence, there's not much he can do."

"Your first sentence was four words too long," Sewell snapped. "You didn't think. That's the whole problem." He sighed. "Alright, take me to them. Let's see what we can salvage."

* * *

The cell door opened. Robbie Malone broke off the conversation in mid-word and half-rose. When he saw that the newcomer in the three-piece suit was flanked by a half-dozen rifle-toting members of the Order, he settled back onto the stool.

"You guys just keep multiplying, don't youse," he grinned.

Divakaruni met Sewell's gaze squarely. "Hello, Patrick. It's been a few years."

Sewell shifted position, uncomfortably. "I would have wished for better circumstances, Ram."

Divakaruni's tone was neutral. "You seem to have engineered the existing ones, haven't you?" At the younger man's silence, the doctor rose up to his full five feet five inches. "Well? Did you, or did you not pay one of my students to appropriate my notes? Did you not opt to continue a project that clearly violates scientific and medical ethics to a degree that—"

"Ethics have a way of evolving," Sewell said, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. "There was a time when organ donation would have been considered an unspeakable violation of a cadaver, and the alarmists were painting horror stories of poorer patients being permitted to die so that their organs might be harvested for the wealthier. Ten years from now, Senator Gerard might well be seen as a visionary."

"Or a madman," Divakaruni retorted dryly. "I notice you haven't attempted to enlighten the general public."

"Tell the truth, Doctor. Do you really think they have the necessary understanding? How many of them do you seriously think would comprehend what it is that we're trying to do?"

"Enough of them." Divakaruni was emphatic. "Or at least enough of them that you're afraid to divulge the intent of your research."

Nightwing cleared his throat. Both men turned to look at him. "Ya know," he began, trying to stay in character as Robbie, "something about this whole set-up stinks. I mean, youse guys are government types, right? So normally, when it comes ta spending other people's money, ya fill out yer requisitions, ya make it all look kosher, ya remember ta skim a bit off the top for a week in the Caymans." His expression hardened. "Only something long-term, like this top-secret research, well, it's kinda like a sinkhole, ain't it? Ya keep asking fer more and more funding, and it seems ta me the guys handing over yer allowance might start asking more an' more questions about where it's all going. And one of these days, they might just call for that A-word." He smirked. "That's A like in 'audit', not like in 'annuity', by the way. And youse can't have that can youse?"

He sighed, in mock-commiseration. "So where can youse get yer cash? How can youse afford ta set up yer pet scientists in a state-of-the-art lab? Well, youse can always ask fer donations." He shook his head. "No, youse can't. Because the first thing the donors would want to know is why they should pay extra on top of their tax dollars. And the second thing they'd want to know is what the project is. They might even investigate on their own. And youse can't take the chance that they'll be… um… enlightened enough not ta go ta the press. How'm I doing so far?"

"You're being extremely entertaining," Sewell said. "I'm sure you're much in demand at children's parties." He shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. "Is there a point in all of this?"

"I'm getting to that. See, there just aren't a lot of people or organizations out there that hand over large wads of cash, with about the only question being 'when do we get it back?' In fact," he frowned, and the New Jersey accent vanished, as though it had never existed. "You know something? I can't think of a single _legitimate_ enterprise that would hand over that kind of money to you on an ongoing basis. It's also extremely difficult to believe that you would set up your star researcher in a lab in a building owned by one of Metropolis' more notorious drug czars." His eyes narrowed. "I guess you could always plead ignorance and admit you didn't run a background check on the owner. Except that, well, it seems one of your researcher's pet projects found its way into King Snake's arsenal. Now, I make it my business to be aware when a new weapon hits the market, and I can pretty much assure you that your scientific team had a virtual monopoly on that strain of coral snake venom… until King Snake got his hands on it."

He looked at Sewell, who, for the first time, seemed to be a bit rattled.

"So, _Patrick_ ," he continued, "why don't you explain to me why Fiitawa was so willing to share her results with the Metropolis mob?" He got up, seemingly oblivious to the six rifles now trained in his direction. "See, it's always possible that the public won't see the ethical issues surrounding your research. But the ethics of your boss taking money from organized crime, and supplying the mob with biological weapons, the inherent wrongness in a senator collaborating with a known terrorist organisation dedicated to bringing down the government said senator allegedly represents… Oh, I think they could probably get a handle on those. What do you think, Patrick?"

Sewell stood motionless for a moment. Then, slowly, he brought his hands together and applauded. "Very good, Malone. Or do you prefer 'Nightwing'? I have to admit you've put together a thoroughly convincing theory. Unfortunately, there's not a shred of evidence to place me here, right now. If you persist in accusing me at a later date, I'll laugh off your allegations as a pitiable attempt to cast aspersions on the senator. Fiitawa's been reassigned; we have reason to believe that Dorance won't be a factor in Metropolis, much longer. Naturally the senator and I are both horrified that an illegal organisation would stoop to abduct a prominent scientist of our acquaintance, but to accuse us of being somehow involved in said abduction? That would be a serious accusation. One you'd need quite a bit of proof to back up."

The way Sewell was talking, Dick thought, it sounded like he planned to keep them both alive. As much as he appreciated the sentiment, Nightwing had to admit that doing so would be an act of sheer stupidity. As the cliché had it, the two captives knew too much to be allowed to go free. Still, he concealed his scepticism as Sewell smiled and held up the wire and transceiver that the Carnelian Order soldiers had confiscated earlier.

"I imagine," Sewell continued, "that that's why you brought this in. We've already neutralised it, of course." He opened his hand and let the equipment fall to the floor. Deliberately, he stepped on the transceiver. "Still, why take chances?"

"Oh, I agree," Nightwing said, making no effort to hide his amusement. "I figured the fastest way to find Doctor Divakaruni was to let your people take me right to him. And, I had to assume that if you guys were smart, you'd search me before you tried locking me up somewhere. So, I gave you something to find." He held up his left wrist, which sported an ornate wristwatch. "And once you did, you stopped looking."

He paused. Then, seemingly speaking to the empty air, he added, "Did you get all that?"

Instantly, Barbara's voice issued forth from a speaker built into the watch. "I got it, the LLU amateur radio club has been broadcasting it, and the local police force picked it up. The cops should be there any second."

Sewell's jaw dropped. "But then… I just…" As he realized the full import of the information that he had relayed a moment ago, his face paled. "No."

At that moment, they heard a voice from outside speaking through a bullhorn. "This is the police. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up…"

* * *

"How did you get it on the radio?" Dick asked, later.

Barbara grinned. "Basically, I tinkered with the controls so the transmission had enough static to be annoying, but not so much that you couldn't hear what was going on. Then, I knocked on the radio club's offices, and told them that I'd been fiddling with my dial, and started picking up a weird transmission, and was there any way they could maybe make it any clearer."

"And then they heard—" Dick started to laugh.

"They did."

He thought of something, then. Not that it was of serious importance; he could always find another alter ego if this one was compromised, but he had to know. "At what point did they start listening? Did they hear—?"

"They came in around the part where Divakaruni started cussing out Fiitawa." Barbara understood the reason for his apprehension perfectly. "They heard Sewell call you 'Malone', but a surname that common—I think the alias is still safe."

Dick nodded, but resolved to wait at least a month or two before using the identity again.

"So, Nightwing," she teased. "You've destroyed an illegal genetics lab, handed the _Daily Planet_ some fascinating computer discs, destroyed a political career, rescued an abductee, and taken down a cell of the Carnelian Order. What are you going to do next?"

Dick grinned. "I'm going to Astroland!"

Barbara laughed. "What?"

"It's an amusement park on Coney Island, Barb." He closed his eyes. "I'm heading back."

"To the Titans."

Dick nodded. "I think I knew this new life as a vagabond was just a temporary thing. I wanted to see if I could cut it on my own. No Bruce, no team, just me and my motorcycle."

"That Bruce bought you."

"Well, yeah." The grin dimmed. "And to answer the question, I can. But I don't want to. It's like I'm back under the big top. I was in the act from the time I was five until I was twelve. Do you know how many times I needed the safety net?"

Barbara looked at him. "No."

"Zero." He chuckled at the look on her face. "Not one time did I ever _need_ that net. But I needed to know that it was there, just in case. For the last two weeks, I've been trying to prove that I have what it takes to be a solo act. I do. But each time I have someone along for the ride, I'm glad. Bottom line? I do need to work more on my own. But I need to know that if I get in over my head, I've got a support network out there. So the plan as of now is to go back to the New York. But, I think I'm going to be splitting my time between working with the Titans and striking out on my own."

"And school."

"Right." No point in telling her that he was beginning to have second thoughts about school. He was going to finish out the semester, anyway. And after that, who knew?

"Um, Barb… look. When I found out about before, you and Roy, it threw me. I…"

"I would have told you, Dick," Barbara ventured. "But, you made it pretty clear how you felt about me. I didn't want to hurt you. Anyway, it's over, now. Really over."

Dick nodded. "I understand."

"We can still be friends, then."

A warm smile creased his face. "Always."

* * *

_Heard on radio station WTOP, one day later_

"Senator Lloyd Gerard's political career appears to be over. The senator has not been seen since yesterday, when he was implicated in the kidnapping of geneticist Ram Prasad Divakaruni. A preliminary investigation has found evidence linking the senator with both organized crime and the terrorist Carnelian Order. The Senator's office could not be reached for comment. For more on the story, we join our correspondent, Rita Andrews in Loma Linda…"

* * *

_Metropolis, six weeks later_

Perry White was sure that he was halfway to a stroke. Kent and Lane hadn't reported to the office, yet. He _needed_ that report on the Genesis Corporation for page three. Page three currently had a large blank space on it instead of a story. It was three hours and twenty-two minutes to press time, and there was a full-page photograph of the Invisible Man on page three, instead of the story! And to top it all off…

"Look! I don't know how you got this number, but I have no idea who… no, I will NOT call my HR department!" He banged down the receiver with an oath. Three minutes later the phone rang again. He let it go to voicemail. The phone kept ringing. He waited for it to stop. It didn't. Finally, Perry groaned and picked it up. "Fine. Tell me again. You're saying that one of _my_ reporters is the vigilante known as Nightwing. You do know that Nightwing is based with the Teen Titans in New York, and that this is Metropolis, right?" He felt his temper rising again. "You do realize that the _Planet_ has _one_ New York correspondent, who, by the way, happens to be a woman? Fine. What was the name again? Hold."

He stabbed the direct-dial button for human resources. "Hi, Viola, I didn't know if anyone was working in your department, this late. Listen, can you do me a favor and check personnel to see if we have a… 'Robert' or a 'Robbie Malone' working for us? Have we ever cut a cheque to such a person for freelance work? No? That's what I thought. Could you hang on one sec?" He placed her on hold, furious with himself for giving in to the caller on the other line. "First," he muttered, "some moron draws a pair of glasses on a photo of Superman and tries to tell me it's Kent. Now, this idiot thinks I've got Nightwing on the payroll.

"Olsen!" He bellowed, "When Lane gets back, do me a favor? Ask her if she's secretly Wonder Woman? Thanks!"

He returned to Viola in HR. "Viola. Listen, go home. I know those files are a mess, but the streets aren't safe late at night. Go. Call a cab; bring the receipt to accounting, tomorrow. And have a good night."

He disconnected and went back to the first call. "Like I told you the first time, Mister," Perry White snarled, " _there is no Robbie Malone employed at the Daily Planet_!"

He slammed the phone down and went to get himself a coffee.

* * *

 _It's Independence Day I'm free_  
And it's a strange place to be  
I'm gonna break these chains  
Unleash the changes in me

 _I see an endless road_  
I feel the restless wind  
I've lost the fear inside  
Cause I've got no choice  
But to live or die

 _Suddenly you're in this fight alone_  
Steppin' out into the great unknown  
And the night's the hardest time  
When the doubts run through your mind  
Cause suddenly you find yourself alone  
Suddenly you find yourself

_Desmond Child/Andreas Carlsson, "Suddenly"_


End file.
